Greenhorn
by Blackberry Avar
Summary: A young dragon, entrusted with a message by his higher-ups, sent into a war zone for which he is unprepared. Little do they know how close he is to breaking.
1. Chapter 1

**Written by B. Avar while listening to various rock songs.**

 **Disclaimer! I do not own Wings of Fire or any of the characters contained inside it. If I did, there would be constant cliffhangers. I am only publishing one of my fantasies about what could have happened that we do not see in the books. The hero of another story, if you get what I mean.**

 **But yeah, there would definitely be constant cliffhangers.**

Prologue.

* * *

It was noon at the post office when a small, unsure Sandwing stepped up to the counter and asked to receive a scroll from the dragon there.

"What do you need it for?" asked the Seawing at the desk. "And what's your name?"

"I'm Dust.", said the Sandwing. "I'm being assigned to the northern front. What's your name?"

"Narwhal. But never mind about that. Exactly where on the northern front are you being assigned to? And why do you need that scroll? Speak up boy. My time is short, and you aren't on my list of couriers. The scroll you are asking for, you do realize, is highly classified information." Narwhal said, adjusting his spectacles. Seawings sometimes needed glasses to see above water.

Dust paled at the words 'highly classified', and gulped, but pressed on naìvely. "I'm being assigned to the northern front by Fort Pitt and somebody told me to carry the mail. I didn't realize it was highly classified."

"I didn't realize it was highly classified, _sir,_ that's what you meant." said Narwhal.

"I didn't realize it was highly classified, sir." sputtered Dust, who was by now thoroughly mollified. "I was just told to bring the mail by the marshal's aide. I'm only six and a half."

"They just keep getting younger and younger these days." muttered the clerk. "What a clueless dragon."

"Huh?" asked Dust.

"Never mind. There are a dozen marshals in this base, I'd like you to know. Do you know which one's aide told you to do this?"

"No sir."

"Then we have a problem. You'll have to stay here until I can find someone who will vouch for you, and I won't have you leaving a moment sooner. Understood?"

"Understood sir." said Dust, his eyes now firmly glued to the floor.

"Good. Now wait here. You don't have any identification, and that makes you suspicious."

"But I'm a private. I'm not supposed to have any identification! I'm not suspicious! I'm only six!" cried Dust.

"Which makes you all the more suspicious. Your youth allows you to slip by anything and everything. No one would suspect a young private to be an agent for Blaze or Burn, no. Except for me. You are the perfect recruit for a nefarious enemy like the Skywings." Narwhal nodded to himself knowingly. "Very suspicious." he repeated. "Highly classified information indeed. Just short of top secret it is."

"Cajun, go find someone who can vouch for this most interesting and untrustworthy fellow." said the clerk to a guard, ignoring Dust's cries protesting his unsuspiciousness. "I'll handle him."

The guard left the lobby of the post office and slipped through the swinging door, leaving Dust to sulk on his feet. There were no chairs in the post office, a victim of the recent cost-cutting. There was nothing to do but wait and see if he could convince the clerk to let him go. A cursory look at the Seawing, however, disabused him of this notion, and he fidgeted while he watched the door, waiting for the guard to come back.

Sweat was forming on Dust's face and he was very nearly hyperventilating when Cajun came back in, leading an unfamiliar and distinctly annoyed looking dragon straight towards him.

"Who is this?" he asked Narwhal when he got there, and all Dust's hopes of being recognized and rescued from the embarrassing situation died a premature death. He turned to Dust.

"It certainly would seem that you've become another unfortunate victim of Narwhal's suspicions. I wouldn't worry about him too much." Dust's hopes, once crushed, now rose again. "But he is right about us not letting just any dragon through with classified papers. I'm sorry, but we'll just have to wait until we can obtain the aide in question. There's nothing else we can do, at least that's not against protocol anyway. This might take a little while."

He sent Cajun back out and mobilized a few more dragons in the search.

In the end it took an agonizing two hours to find the dragon who had given Dust the order, and it turned out that he was in a staff meeting in the intelligence division, and could not be bothered to come out and see the matter until it was finished, which took another two hours. By that time Dust's legs felt completely dead, and he was bored beyond all belief. Finally, after another thirty minutes of finagling and chastisement, he was finally authorized to carry the scroll and proceed to the northern front, not forgetting to grab a mail bag at the front door. By the time he got outside it was twilight, and he was hungry.

He visited the market outside and bought some lizards with the last of his pocket money, then retired to an isolated bench to eat them. Just when he finished his meal he remembered the scroll on which he had wasted an entire afternoon.

For a moment he was tempted to drop it on a cactus and forget about the affair, so frustrated was he. After all, what could be so important about a simple piece of parchment? He brought it out in his claw, poised to let go and let it be trampled by errant passerby, but couldn't. Dust sighed and put it back into his mail bag. He licked the crumbs off his scales and took off.

Such was his first introduction to active service.


	2. Introductions and an Assignment

**A/N:**

 **I've been a bit busy for the last month preparing for my finals and exams of that sort, so I haven't been able to attend to my side projects at all recently. Now that I finally have some time on my hands, fortunately, I've decided to write up a short update for this story. I greatly enjoy the Wings of Fire books and I decided that I wanted to write a good story about a hero that we never get to hear about in the books. I definitely hope you enjoy this, although parts of it may or may not contain amateur mistakes. Thankfully, that's what self-criticism is for.  
**

 **If you have any thoughts, I would greatly appreciate hearing them, whether in a review or a PM.  
**

* * *

It was a hot, crisp afternoon when Dust finally spotted his destination, a looming fortress that stuck up from the top side of a bracken, rolling hill like a great brown island in a sea of dry and dirty shrubs interspersed with clumps of weedy grass and dehydrated bushes; choked with desiccated cacti and great sheathes of brown prairie.

From the post office in the desert he had flown many miles to reach the southern island corridor, and then on he had gone due east towards the Seawing kingdom over the Oyster Coast, only stopping at military islands to sleep the night away, to play games with the bored garrison and grab many a bite to eat, only to depart at the crack of dawn; always aiming due east towards the rising sun and rest.

Then he had reached the edge of the rainforest, where the air was languid and sticky and the moisture crept into his scales until he longed for a proper bath of sand. Even the ocean was no longer cool and teeming with life, but was now filled with warming currents and jellyfish the size of which he had never before imagined, nor ever wished to encounter again. He stopped for a day at a supply depot, and was much tentative about the many strange meats.

It took him four, almost five days to bypass that horrible rainforest, and then he found himself flying steadily more north, so that the days became cooler and more cloudy, and the nights more clear than down south, where the clouds would drizzle for days on end, if it was not outright pouring. Funnily enough, the mosquitoes never seemed to be bothered by it, and he was glad to be escaped from that territory. Here he felt that he could be his own dragon again, and he reveled in it.

Slowly he worked upwards until he began to see evidence of the Seawing kingdom's influence, whether it was from an all Seawing patrol canvassing the skies to a stockpile of fish hidden in a cave where he landed to spend the night.

Several times he was stopped by dragons wanting to know his allegiances, mostly agents of Blister, but once of Burn. It was a scary, almost surreal experience when four dragons swept out of the morning sunrise and glided down to where he was preparing to take off, having just caught himself a meal in a pronghorn antelope.

They were Skywings, and they inspected him roughly, asking him whether or not he had any identification. Fortunately he had had the presence of mind to conceal the papers showing his loyalty to Blister under a rock when he saw them coming, otherwise they would have killed him on the spot. When he had satisfied them that he was just a fledgling soldier who had lost his way they pointed him towards the nearest Skywing outpost and swooped off, swearing good-naturedly as they went, and not in the least bit suspicious it seemed, otherwise Dust thought he would have lost it.

And so it was that when he doggedly flew into a Sandwing fort belonging to his allies that he breathed a sigh of relief, even as the MP's searched him and cross-referenced his ID for any errors that might show him to be a spy. None were found, and when he told them he had to deliver a message to the officer who was in charge they ushered him to the dragon commanding the base. His name was Arroyo.

* * *

It was nearly dusk when a tired Dust was shown into a cramped brick office. He looked around. A Sandwing secretary sat by the empty fireplace with a quill in one talon and a piece of paper lying on his wooden desk. Clearly the dragon had been filling out forms before Dust had come in; as Dust watched he dipped the end of the quill into the iron inkpot – another thing that he had noticed, nothing out here was breakable -, and wrote something, then shifted the flimsy form aside, taking another one from a large stack.

Behind Dust a page scuttled away down the hall and disappeared, something that didn't exactly lend him any confidence. He didn't like the look of the place much, and the condition of its contents was leading him to steadily more disagreeable conclusions every time he looked at the evidence.

Everything smelled of sweat and grime and dirty armor that hadn't been washed in weeks, though the aide's office had a faint smell of beeswax. The furniture was plain and utilitarian, Dust thought as he took in the room, even for the military. The aide barely looked up as he came in, then went back to his paperwork. For a while nothing was said, and both sides shifted uncomfortably, each waiting for the other to make the next move.

Finally the secretary looked up at Dust as if expecting him to say something. Not knowing what else to do, Dust held his gaze.

"Well?" said the secretary. "Is this an appointment or a complaint? If this is about that scuffle in barracks two I don't want to hear any of it. Damned thing happened near a week ago and they're still complaining about their injuries."

Dust fought the urge to flinch when the dragon swore like that. It just wasn't proper for someone in the chain of command to be so crude, much less the major's secretary. Still, training took over, and he replied.

"Neither sir. I've got a message for Major Arroyo." Then his bravado ran out, and he stumbled over himself with the next few parts. "The officer in charge of this operation. I'd like to know where he is."

The secretary jerked a thumb towards a weathered door on the left side of the room that Dust had originally assumed was for a cleaning closet.

"The Major just got back from the western outposts a few hours ago. You can't miss him, " he said. "My name's Outback."

Dust shook it firmly. "Dust."

He got up and, not knowing what to expect, entered the major's office. It too was a bare and utilitarian affair. A tough-looking wooden filing cabinet stood behind a dented and scraped oak desk, on which sat a mug, an inkpot and yet more paperwork. There was only one window. On the floor lay a beaten rug, and to the side a Sandwing paced vigorously. This, Dust decided, must be the major.

He was an interesting dragon. He looked to be about in his upper thirties, grizzled and with a scar running up the bottom of his chin that intersected his mouth, only the largest of other, smaller scars. Numerous freckles dotted his scales while his eyes were an all-seeing gray that seemed to swallow Dust up in the realm of painful experience.

The major had an imposing build; while he was not heavyset nor particularly muscular, he was still strong enough that Dust could see the large bulges under his skin that rippled whenever he moved, and when he did so, it was with a practiced ease that belied his size. There were tells in the way his eyes looked about habitually, as if he kept an eye open even when he was at rest. This was not a dragon that Dust wanted to antagonize, much less fight.

He walked with a limping gait, and it was only now that Dust realized that one of his wings was in tatters. And while the private had been observing the major. the major had also been watching the private.

Presently Arroyo snorted and his nostrils flared. Evidently he had found something about Dust that he disliked, for he wheeled away and strode to his seat with an air of finality.

"So," he began. "What's this business about a scroll? My men have told me quite a bit about you, Dust, but I want to see you with my own eyes before I pass any judgment."

His voice was deep but clear, and when he spoke there was no trace of the lisp that had plagued many of the city dragons Dust had talked to in the numerous camps and bazaars back in his home country. His manner exuded an aura of confidence, but he was almost unmistakably weary. It was not a physical weariness, nor a lack of fortitude on that front, but a mental sense of fatigue that Dust had never seen before. He looked almost sad.

"I was told to deliver an urgent message to you, sir. There was no one else available for the job, so they chose me to carry it here."

Dust noticed the odd look on Arroyo's face. "Is there a problem sir?" he asked, a sense of worry beginning to creep up on him.

"No, there's nothing wrong." said the major. "Normally I would direct you to take your letter to our post office, but as you can see, I already have plenty of paperwork on my talons and I don't need to add any more to the pile." He gestured towards the pillar of forms on his desk and smiled.

The ice was broken, and Dust began to relax, although he was still tense.

"Pass me the letter, and I'll see what this is all about."

Dust dutifully gave him the small piece of parchment, letting the major take it and open it with his thumb. He watched as the dragon began to read. At first Arroyo seemed bored with it, as if it was just yet another official letter that he had no care for. But then his expression became steadily more concerned, and then alarmed. When he reached the end of it he rolled up the scroll and resealed it, laying it on his desk, putting on a straight face for the confused private in front of him.

What could have concerned this grizzled war veteran so much that he had lost his composure in front of a new recruit? Dust didn't know, but he was intrigued all the same.

By this point it was almost dark outside, and Arroyo brought out several candles from within one of his drawers, setting one on his desk and two others around the room, then lit them gently with a puff of his firebreath. Instantly the walls flickered with crackling orange light and a dragon-sized shadow leapt into existence behind him.

"Do your orders dictate that you're just passing through or are you staying here?" asked Arroyo when he had finished with the tapers. "Our front lines are stable, but only just, and I need extra dragons to buffer them wherever I can."

"I don't know, sir." admitted Dust. "I was only told to head to Fort Pitt and deliver my message to you. I didn't receive any other orders." He kept the little factoid that that was because he'd been forced to leave more quickly than he'd liked to himself.

Arroyo snorted, although he tried to hide it. "Looks like the brass was in such a hurry they forgot to give you another set of instructions. Out here it'll be months before anything happens to you. The best I can do is give you a good unit, one that will take care of its recruits."

He rapped his talons on his desk a few times, thinking.

"Before you go, ask Outback to assign you to forty-fourth brigade in the north. It's hard fighting up there and they've recently suffered some casualties, but they're experienced. They'll show you the ropes."

"Yes sir."

"And you don't have to say sir all the time. We're at war now, and there's no time for it. Call me Arroyo, and major whenever we have visitors, if only to keep up the proper decorum. I'll give you a night's rest, you've certainly earned it. Report to Sergeant Savannah in two days. He'll give you what you need. That will be all."

It took Dust a moment to realize that he was being dismissed, and he saluted hastily, then turned to go, nearly stumbling over himself as he crossed the threshold, closing the door with his tail as he went. It shut with a muffled thud.

Only once he was away from the major did he realize that he had never asked about what was in the message, and he would've slapped his forehead except for the fact that he had been trained out of it in boot camp by his sadistic drill sergeant. He didn't want to think about that, didn't want to think about - no, stop.

Outback was still in his office, which Dust had come to think of more as a lobby, writing to himself on a piece of paper that did not appear to be a standard form; and he quickly slid it under his desk when Dust approached.

"I saw you doing something just now. What was it?" Dust asked.

"A letter. It's nothing important." said Outback, sounding rather vague.

"Is it family?" said Dust, thinking wistfully back to his own, who were still living in the desert town where he had been born, close to the dangerous no-man's land between the northern edge of the rainforest and Burn's fortress. The family that was left, anyway.

"Yes. I don't see them much these days."

"Okay. Well, I'm just stopping by 'cause Major Arroyo told me to ask you to put me in with the forty-fourth brigade, and I need you to do that for me. Sir."

Outback's face immediately took on an expression of annoyance. "Alright, alright. It beats filing complaint forms any day."

"Paperwork is always boring." said Dust, and Outback gave a wry smile.

"I should know. Still, it has to be done."

He began looking through his drawers, and then, as if he had suddenly remembered something, turned around and started shuffling through the filing cabinet.

"Hmm." he said as he lifted up a folder and looked at the title, then shoved it down again. "Was it the forty-fourth brigade or the forty-eighth?"

"Forty-fourth."

"Courier work?"

"No. Just as a regular soldier. I'm leaving day after tomorrow. I have to get some rest from that long flight."

"How long?" asked Outback.

"From the southern side of the Sandwing kingdom all the way up here, straight. I did it in less than a week."

"That's almost two-thousand miles. You're a strong flier. Did you win any awards?"

"No. More's the pity,." said Dust. "I hated that jungle."

"That's always the worst part of the flight, what with all those mosquitoes."

"The rain never seems to bother 'em. They always bit me just when I was the most cold and wet."

"Me too."

"You sound like you've made the flight more than once."

"Five times, actually. Once here, once back to see my family, then back here again, then three months of leave, and then another flight to the fort this spring."

"You're a busy secretary."

"I prefer the term 'aide'. It's more dignified," said Outback, turning his attention to the files. "Aha! Here they are. Hang on one moment for me to get all the information; then I can sign the nine-forty and you'll be out of here."

"Let me see. Forty-fourth, forty-fourth. Looks like a tough assignment Dost."

"It's Dust, actually."

"Sorry, sorry. When you have to deal with half the base every week you tend to forget a few names here and there."

"It's alright. Now what's this about forty-fourth being a tough assignment?"

"Let's just say that forty-fourth has been in a tight spot this month."

"What kind of a tight spot?" asked Dust, still too naive to guess what that really meant.

"There we are," said the aide, pointedly ignoring him. "They're currently at Fort McCracken with the thirteenth tagging along."

"That wasn't what I asked," said Dust, who was still being ignored.

"Normally I'd have Lieutenant Savannah do this, or Sandstorm or Mesa, but you're a special case. Here's the nine-forty."

Outback starting writing in the form, then stopped.

"What's your last name?"

"Sonderi."

"That's a good name, old too, though I'm not sure what it means."

"It's been in the family for generations, but I probably know less about it than you do," said Dust, as Outback finished his part of the form with a flourish. He pushed it forward.

"Sign here."

Dust scanned the form quickly. The top part was far too thick with legalese for his poor reading skills, and the aide seemed to have it covered, so he skipped to the bottom where the important parts were.

' _This document certifies that_ _Private Dust Sonder_ _i_ _has been assigned_ _to_ _Forty-Fourth Brigade_ _as of_ _July 5_ _,006_ _,_ _standard,_ _by_ _Second_ _Class Warrant Officer of the Army_ _Outback_ _Betru_ _.'_

Beneath that was Outback's signature, and next to it was an empty space for his own. Dust wrote his name in practiced but still bad cursive, and it was done.

"I seem to have better handwriting than you." said Outback, looking at the page.

"It's fine. Where I come from, you're lucky if you learn how to read."

"Ah."

Dust took the paper and tucked it away inside his military issue satchel.

"Anything else, or should I head to the barracks now?"

"Nope. The barracks are full right now, actually. You'd be better off sleeping in the triage camp outside the fort. There's more space and they've already set up some temporary accommodations."

"Where's that?"

"Just go through the gates and look left. You can't miss it."

"Thanks." said Dust, and walked out of the office and into the hall. It was two flights of stairs to the bottom floor, and Dust, tired and sore as he was, fought back a groan every step of the way. Still, he soon found himself trotting outside, past a set of alert guards and through the gate, towards the savory smell of meat being roasted and quiet laughter.

The fort sat on top of a large, rolling hill, and around the stone walls was a huge field of tents and campfires that stretched away for a hundred yards in all directions almost to the dwindling forest – a little wasteland in the bottoms punctuated by tree stumps and tough-looking weeds that covered the ground like the healing tissue of a giant scar.

It looked like there was half a battalion camped out there, at least, and maybe another brigade and a few companies on the side. Perhaps a thousand dragons in all, not including those who bunked inside the fort.

"Halt!" said one of the dragons, a big, gray and blue Seawing who stood in front and noticeably away from a lively campfire. Even in the dim light Dust could see that he had bandages in a wide swathe across his chest, and his front leg was wrapped in gauze. "What's your name, stranger?"

He swung a spear towards Dust's neck, and the glinting, deadly point stopped just below his chin.

"Private Dust, sir. I have the papers to prove it." said Dust, using the default Sir that he had been taught to use 'when in doubt of another's station'.

The sentry grudgingly lowered his weapon and pulled it back to his side, although he did not relax his ready posture.

"Minnow." he said, gruffly, and frowned. "There's no need for me to see your papers; the Corporal will take care of that for you. Come on, I'll take you to him."

And with that he turned and started trotting to a line of tents, and Dust followed, stepping past the fire and the three injured dragons beside it. They watched him go with what seemed like pity, then went back to talking among themselves when he had gone. Their actions set the theme for the rest of the camp.

True, there were some who played poker around tables and enjoyed themselves in telling old jokes to their own, but the atmosphere was mostly grim with only a hint of excitement, which Dust guessed came from the prospect of a hot supper.

They passed formerly white tents and soiled gambesons set out to dry on what looked like old laundry lines but were now covered in mud and dirt, until Minnow stopped in front of a wooden longhouse that stuck out like a sore thumb. It too was dirty, although not as much as the other dwellings in the camp, and worn stairs suggested that it had seen frequent use.

Minnow stepped up to the porch and knocked on the door with a loud rap, five times. There was a pause. "Hold on, there's a guy knocking fit to break down the door, go get it." said someone inside, and presently it was opened by a rusty claw and the two younger dragons shooed in.

Two Sandwings sat before a checkerboard, evidently playing the landlubbers version of the game, and it was a Seawing who had opened the door.

"Come on in Minnow." he said. "Who's your friend there? I don't recognize him."

"A newbie from the western front. His name's Dust."

* * *

 **A/N:  
**

 **I hope you enjoyed this update and I had a lot of fun writing it. I definitely appreciate thoughtful, constructive criticism and I would like to hear your thoughts in the review box down below.**

 **Made while listening to... Well, nothing actually, because my speakers broke, so I'm pushing out an update before I have to get my laptop fixed, which might take some time or might not. I have a friend in the tech repair industry who might be able to hotwire this thing, so I'm crossing my fingers as to whether or not he can pull it off.**

 **Cheers! B. Avar.**


	3. In Which Dust Acquaints Himself

**A/N: The events of Winglets: Assassin should not be considered canon for this story.**

 **Written while listening to Bad Company, by Bad Company. I'm not kidding.**

 **Note; I will be using the words dragon and man interchangeably here. There's no good reason not to.**

* * *

The inside of the longhouse was lit by a warm fire in a fireplace made of rough stone, over which lay a rude granite countertop for cooking. An iron poker leaned against the wall in a corner, tipped with gray ash. The floor was hewn from hardwood, Dust saw, which kind he did not know.

There was little furniture; a trio of chairs sat by a small, unpolished table near what Dust took to be an open window that didn't actually have any windowpanes, which was confirmed when a summer breeze wafted in and brushed against his scales, before playing with the fire and blowing out onto the porch.

Three thin bedrolls were in the opposite corner from the poker; stringy and threadbare, they looked like they had seen much use and little patching; on top of them were what looked like medical supplies.

Having finished exploring the cabin, Dust's eyes returned to the two Sandwings standing by the checkerboard, both of whom had been watching him since he'd come in. They were officers, he knew, by the chevrons that decorated their shoulder straps.

"A new guy, huh." said one, the largest of the pair. "What rank? He looks a little young to be out here." His companion subtly shoved him with a wing.

"Private," said Minnow. "He needs someone to look over his papers; wants to stay in the triage field."

The smaller officer looked at Dust. What he saw was not a pretty sight. The dragon in front of him was thin, almost to the point of being gaunt, and he sounded weary, most likely exhausted. He wore no armor, not even a gambeson, and his stance was not that of a dragon accustomed to combat.

"Alright," said he. "I'm Corporal Aster. Why don't you sit down for a minute and I'll get this over with." He pushed forward the third chair and beckoned Dust forward, who gave him his papers, nodded gratefully, and took a seat.

"Who's your companion?" asked Dust.

"Sergeant Major Sandstorm." said the larger dragon. "And don't you forget it." He had a gruff voice, one that was not unkind yet at the same time clearly meant business. Dark yellow scales and shaded yellow eyes defined his outward appearance along with an oval shaped scar on his torso and many others. His left ear was chopped off at the lobe, and his wing was slightly bent, but in all other respects he looked like a healthy Sandwing, fit for the front.

Aster shuffled through the forms.

"Well, it looks like everything's in order. I hate to say this since you've probably already been pored over and inspected and poked and prodded by the MP's, but I can now say that you are clean. Congratulations and welcome to Fort Pitt."

"Sturgeon, go find Cooky and tell him to prepare an extra slab of venison for our new arrival. I'll eat with the soldiers tonight, if I don't have any pressing patients." said Aster, this time to a Seawing.

Venison? Dust didn't know what that was. There was much to learn up here, apparently, and he'd missed out on some things.

Sturgeon was the the one who had opened the door, and he hurried out towards the canteen at the center of the camp while Minnow lingered on the porch, waiting until he was dismissed.

"You can go back to sentry duty Minnow." said Aster. "Or is your sling still bothering you? I had Kit fix it up but she might have missed a spot."

Minnow refused to say anything, but he fidgeted uncomfortably and drew his leg closer to his chest, his eyes flicking between it and the friendly face of the corporal.

Aster strode over and tried to take the injured leg so that he could inspect the wound, but Minnow shied away and spread his wings, still refusing to say anything.

"Come now. I'm not going to hurt you." said Aster. "I just want to have a look at this." and with that he took Minnow's leg gently in one talon and traced his claws along the injury with the other, undoing the gauze as he went. A thick red line tore through the front half of Minnow's lower leg, surrounded by dried blood that had crept into his bandage and smeared over his forearm.

"This looks like it's been weeping. Are you sure you haven't put too much pressure on it?" asked Aster. "I'm going to clean this scab and then get you some clean cloth to wrap it in. Just stay here until I get back, and that's an order."

"Corporal, this isn't necessary." said Minnow. "I know you like to take care of your patients but I really think I should be going now."

"Nonsense." said Aster. "It'll only take me a minute and it'll save you pain in the long run."

He strode over to the rear of the cabin, searching for the triage box he always kept near him. "I could have sworn I put my mesh over here somewhere." he muttered. "Aha! Here it is." He took the medium sized container off the bedrolls and reached for a small bucket of water, then walked back to the porch.

"Is Aster a medic?" Dust asked Sandstorm as he watched the corporal scrub off the caked blood on Minnow's leg, only stopping when the larger Seawing grimaced.

"Not really." said the taller officer. "He applied for the medical corps when he joined, but he failed the test for stressful situations; they let him stay on as an assistant in the field hospitals. Eventually he got promoted and then transferred here a few years back, and that was that."

"So he's more of a doctor then."

"Yeah. He cares too much. The barracks here are mostly full of wounded soldiers. Guess he's found his place. He practically owns the infirmary."

There was a comfortable silence, broken only by the quiet breeze and the sound of Aster doing his work.

"So," said Dust after a little while. "Who runs this place, sir? Other than Major Arroyo, I mean."

Sandstorm considered for a moment, bit his lip.

"Sergeant Savannah, for sure. Outback, although he doesn't know it. Belmet takes care of the supplies. He's the head freighter for the region, but he isn't often at the fort. Other than that it's hard to say. Mesa, the warrant officer, Aster and myself, I suppose. I'm Arroyo's go-to man when problems come up."

"Is this a Sandwing run fort?"

"Mostly. There are Seawings around, but they're mostly soldiers. Everyone important is a Sandwing, except for the marines. They keep to themselves, on good days."

"Marines? I've never heard of those.."

"Her Royal Majesty's Finest Continentals. They've been sitting tight on the fort ever since they arrived and refuse to budge, no matter what Arroyo can do or say."

"I thought they were our allies."

"They are. There's more Seawings fighting out here than you'd think, and a lot of good ones too. It's just the marines I don't like. Too stuck up and arrogant if you ask me, but I can't do anything about it. They follow 'higher authorities'. We Sandwings don't have jurisdiction over those lot."

"Oh." Dust said nothing as he processed the information, but quickly piped up again. "What about the MP's? Who's in charge of them, sir?"

"Savannah, when he's not busy with the armory or out at the front. Then it's Mesa's turn."

Dust held his tongue for a moment. It looked to him like the chain of command was looser here than back home, but he didn't dare say anything for fear of being rebuked. He decided to change the subject.

"Where'd you get that scar? It looks like you got it from a spear."

"You're right. I took a glancing hit from a Mudwing once that went straight through my gambeson. He was a nasty bugger, but I got him."

Dust whistled. "Whew! If that was only a glancing hit I don't want to see what a real one looks like. Those Mudwings must be stronger than I'd thought. I knew they were powerful but not by this much. Straight through the gambeson too. Nasty."

"It was." said Sandstorm. "They had to put me on a stretcher and haul me back to the field hospital doubletime. I was in critical condition for a few days, or so they tell me, but Aster fixed me up well enough. It was a couple years ago, back when he was a surgeon."

"Aster saved your guts? I didn't know that." said Dust. "From the way you two act I wouldn't think he was even friends with you, much less kept you alive."

"Well, he didn't do that much." said Sandstorm, and Dust could have sworn he was hedging. "If he hadn't been around somebody else would've done the job. But I suppose you could look at it that way."

There was a pause.

"What's your story?"

"I don't have much of one," admitted Dust, "but I can share it if you like sir." Unlike Major Arroyo, Sandstorm didn't seem to be bothered when Dust called him sir. Maybe it fed his sense of self-importance.

"There's time enough until supper, and I'm curious. Go on."

A whippoorwill called from somewhere outside of the fort, and far off came the staccato rattling of a woodpecker hammering into an ash tree.

"Well, I enlisted last year because.. why I can't say. Maybe it had something to do with my baby brother getting smashed by a rock in an aerial bombardment, or perhaps because my sister went into the intelligence service; I don't know. It's dangerous back there in the desert."

Sandstorm nodded. He too knew the dangers of the former Sandwing kingdom, where armies clashed constantly and large border skirmishes were fought at every hour of the day and night.

"One day I found myself in front of a recruitment poster and I knew that I wanted out. I thought I could actually do something to change the course of the war. The next thing I knew I was signing up for the army and leaving my family behind for a lonely training ground in the middle of nowhere and a sadistic drill sergeant, no offense intended."

"None taken. What was the name of the drill sergeant?"

"Cholla, why? He was as prickly as the plant, a bad dragon through and through. " Dust shuddered a little. Cholla was practically sadistic.

"I had an instructor just like that once. He didn't have much brains though. He was a big orange fellow with an ornery temper."

"Same here. What was your guy's name?"

"Antlion."

Dust began to laugh.

"What's so funny?" demanded Sandstorm, annoyed that he had been left out of the joke.

"I think Cholla is Antlion's nephew. He talked about his uncle constantly."

Sandstorm winced. "I actually feel sorry for you."

"Ha ha." said Dust, brushing past the subject because he really didn't want to talk about Cholla. "But anyway, they didn't teach me much more than the basic stances and how to use the equipment; rank and formations, that kind of stuff. Our weapons were all fake and I only got to handle a real one twice. I only had one friend in that place, Beryl, and he got sent off to fight in the north. I don't know what's happened to him. We were two sides of the same coin, inseparable."

Sandstorm opened his mouth to say something, but thought better of it.

"I stayed there for five months and then me and my brigade had to ship out, but I got left behind at the last moment in town because of a routing error."

Sandstorm muttered. "Bureaucrats," but otherwise stayed silent.

"By the time I realized my brigade had left without me they were long gone. I ended up getting finagled into delivering a message for a marshal in the place of a courier who hadn't shown up."

"What was in the message?"

"I don't know. I didn't open it, and it was classified to start with. Even if I knew what was in it I wouldn't be able to tell you."

"Let me guess, you had to deliver the message here."

"Yep, straight to Major Arroyo. And that's how I ended up on this rock. He seemed oddly bothered by it, funnily enough."

"Interesting," said Sandstorm "Don't be too ashamed. That little mishap probably kept you alive. The survival rates for new recruits out there in the desert aren't exactly high. I would view it less as a failure on your part and more of a stroke of good luck."

"But what about my friend?"

"It's not my place to answer that question. Either Beryl's alive or he isn't, and there's no use kicking yourself about it until you see him again, alive or dead."

Dust sighed. "I've feared the worst for him ever since he left."

"He must worry about you then," observed Sandstorm. "He sounds like a good companion."

"He was – is."

There was an awkward pause in the conversation, but thankfully it was at this moment that Aster finished wrapping Minnow's leg, after having cleaned it most thoroughly and inspected it with all the clinical speed of a bat in hibernation.

"That should take care of the problem for you. It might itch still but the wound won't rub." said the corporal as he tugged on the gauze to make sure that it was sealed properly. "You had some dandruff under your scales; make sure you keep them clean and don't get any dirt in there. I'm running out of mesh these days, I'm afraid, so I won't be able to give you new bandages any time soon," at this Minnow breathed a sigh of relief, "but we'll have to make do with regular cloth. If you feel any pain go ask Kit to help you, if you can't help yourself; I haven't had much spare time recently. Anything else?"

"No. Nothing at all." said Minnow rather hastily, looking like he would brave a den of scorpions if it meant getting away from the doctor.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm very sure. Besides, I need to get back to my wing. They'll miss me."

Aster looked unconvinced, but let him go. Dust watched as the Seawing trotted away toward his side of the camp as fast as he could walk without seeming disrespectful. Aster looked on until Minnow was out of sight, then put away the bucket of warm water with his long tail and gathered up his medical supplies, humming as he did so.

"When's Sturgeon getting back?" asked Dust, whose stomach felt as if it had had a hole bored into it with a hand-drill and then emptied with a bucket. "He's been gone for a while. And what's that chirping noise? It's driving me crazy."

"Sturgeon won't take any longer than he needs to. It's probably fine." said Sandstorm. "And that 'noise' is a cricket. I think it's more like a chorus."

"It sounds more like a hornet's nest to me. There must be hundreds of them! I wonder what a cricket is anyway. They sound like sand rattles." asked Dust, who had never heard one before.

Sandstorm smiled evilly. "A cricket is a giant insect about twice the length of your thumb and about as wide as your talon. They have big fangs too, like two big stabby needles. There are more than hundreds; it must be thousands of 'em, hundreds of thousands. They have big legs, as big as their bodies. Jump like fleas, they do."

"Are they poisonous?" asked Dust, who had a small fear of venomous animals, Sandwings not included.

"Very poisonous." said Sandstorm. "Smart, and extremely aggressive. They're bloodsuckers, and they like the taste of dragon, especially the younger ones. I've known many good warriors who were felled by roaming cricket packs before their time. It's a shame really."

Dust did not like the picture Sandstorm was painting, and though he was pretty sure he was being hazed, he couldn't be certain that it wasn't based on a glimmer of truth.

"With all due respect, sir, I think you're lying to me, because the last time I checked bugs didn't get that big."

"I swear I'm telling the truth by the scars on my chest and my honor as a Sergeant Major. Just ask any of the soldiers in this camp. They know the dangers of crickets. They'll tell you I'm not lying."

Dust was about to make a sharp retort when Aster cut into the conversation.

"Don't pay any attention to him Dust; he's just pulling your leg. And as for you Sergeant, pick on someone your own size. Just because he's a tenderfoot doesn't mean you have to bother him this much. Go on, shoo, shoo!"

Sandstorm made a few weak protests but stepped out of the longhouse anyway and sauntered off with a smug grin on his face and a bounce in his step, whatever business he had with the corporal quite forgotten.

"I'm sorry if Sandstorm irritated you." said Aster. "He likes to tease the new boys."

"It's no problem sir. I can handle it." Dust made a mental note to ask someone about the whole cricket thing as soon as he had the chance, preferably one of his bunkmates.

"Here comes Sturgeon now." said Aster suddenly.

Dust turned. Yes, a dragon was ambling over the slight hill towards them at a crisp canter, but Dust could not immediately tell whether or not he was a Seawing, though he trusted Aster's judgment. The dragon drew closer and his dark outline became that of Sturgeon, empty-clawed and frowning.

"What's the matter?" asked Aster as soon as Sturgeon had come within hearing range. "Did Cooky spill the salt into the stew again, or is it something else?"

"I passed Sandstorm on my way back; he was chuckling to himself and I'm wondering if I should be concerned."

"I don't think so. He was only messing with the newcomer here, it's nothing to be worried about."

"If you say so sir."

"How long until supper?"

"Ten minutes, give or take. One of the charcoal stoves quit working again and Mesa's men are still working on the thing. It's the fifth breakdown this month. You hungry?" This last was directed towards Dust.

"Starving." said he.

"When are the new ovens getting here from the delta?" asked Aster, ignoring Dust.

"Not for another three weeks; the word on the grapevine is that Belmet got hit by a Mudwing raid down south and they're still picking up the pieces. He's too busy with everyone else's supplies to worry about Cooky's things way out here."

"That's a shame. I was looking forward to having our midday lunch at midday."

They chuckled at the grim humor, but not for long.

It was shortly after that that a large bell clanged out a slow ringing that announced the serving of a meal. Like a nest of swarming bees headed straight for a smear of honey, the camp suddenly got up and headed straight for the canteen at the center of the camp as if struck by a match, Dust included.

The canteen was a wide, grimy tent that resembled one that you would find at a fairgrounds, with sturdy metal poles driven into the gravelly turf – making them out of iron saved the soldiers the work of rebuilding the structure from the ground up every time it burned down -, and small campfires lining the perimeter, while under the canopy cauldrons simmered with soup for famished dragons.

There was a long line for the stew, and someone passed Dust a tin dish and a large wooden spoon for him to eat with. Finally his turn came; the cook filled his bowl with a sparing ladle and he was shooed away so the next man could have a turn.

"That's not as much food as I expected," noted Dust when he had rejoined Aster at one of the mess tables, raising his voice to make himself heard above the chatter of the crowd. His plate was only half-full.

"Rations," said Aster. "You'll get used to it." He shrugged. "Besides, the real meat 'll be along in a jiffy."

Dust eyed his stew for a moment before filling his spoon and taking a sip. The soup was a bit too hot for his liking.

"Ow!"

Aster looked up. "Did you scald yourself?" he asked.

Dust just rubbed his tongue on the back of his mouth and said nothing.

"Yes. That hurt, a lot."

"Cooky does have a habit of keeping his broth heated. Is it really bad, or just bad?"

Dust almost said that it was quite painful, but remembered what had happened to Minnow and quickly changed his tune. "It's not too bad. It tingles but the burning feeling's faded away."

"Good to know." said Aster. "You're not the first new dragon to get surprised like that, and you're certainly not the last. Just be thankful it's not MREs."

"They taste like bricks. Edible bricks with a tiny bit of flavor."

Aster laughed; only the second time Dust had heard him do so. It was a quiet chuckle, and he wondered what Aster would've been like if he'd never joined the corps.

The three dug into their meal, but Dust ate faster than everyone else. By the time Sturgeon was halfway through his bowl the private had already eaten all of his and was now enjoying the warm food, the first he'd had since last night. The ready to eat rock in his satchel that he'd had this morning didn't count, and his body was still thirsting for nutrition.

There was a small commotion at the opposite end of the canteen and a dragon emerged and took the pots of soup off of the serving table, carrying one cauldron in his front talons and another with his tail, hoisting both by their steel handles.

"What's that guy doing? I can't see why he's taking away the stew when there might be more left." said Dust.

"It's to prevent anyone from getting more than his fair share." said Aster. "Watch."

The tension in the room had gone up by a notch, Dust noted, and there seemed to be an air of anticipation which had not been present a moment before.

There was a clattering in the kitchen, and another Sandwing came out balancing a long tray of all kinds of meat. He set it down on the wooden table and wiped his brow before beating a hasty retreat back to the galley.

"What on Pyrhhia -" Dust began, but he was interrupted. As soon as the Sandwing was through the door everyone in the mess hall had gotten to their feet and was headed straight for the table, including Sturgeon and Aster, who were off like streaks. In less than five seconds Dust was sitting confused and alone.

"Hey, wait up!" yelled Dust, and bounded after them. The crowd of dragons had clustered together and were digging in with a will; Dust had to squeeze himself between two bigger dragons to get inside, and even then he had to duck under tall heads and step over waving tails if he wanted to force himself through the crush. One of the only good things about being the second to youngest of his family was that he had learned to be more agile over the years.

He struggled between three dragons and popped out into the front. Some of the flesh looked cooked, some looked raw, but he wasn't familiar with any of it. It looked like they had different animals up here from what he was used to, although there were several kinds of fish that looked almost like the ones back home.

A tall dragon jostled him with a wing and nearly bowled him over. Dust spun around with a sharp retort, but it died on his lips.

"Hello Dust. I didn't see you there." said a voice. It was Sandstorm. "You look surprised."

"I am. I didn't see you in the mess, sir. I thought you were eating somewhere else."

"A bolt fell out in one of the cookstoves and I had to help fix it. I had some stew while I was in the kitchen."

"Ah," said Dust. "If it was only a bolt, what was the big problem?"

"The oven was hot when it came apart. It was one of the pieces that was the hardest to get to, so we had to wait for the racks to cool down before we could do a repair. The screw is about this big," and here Sandstorm held up his talons. The distance between them was about the size of a quarter. "and if it goes the whole thing collapses under its own weight, not to mention it's located in a recess smaller than the width of your tail. Someone had to go fetch a pair of pliers before we could even fit the washer on top of the bore."

"This had better be an uncommon occurrence, otherwise our meals will never get served on time."

"Then you'll be disappointed. It's happened twice this week."

Sandstorm grabbed some meat shortly before it would've been gobbled up by another soldier, and Dust did the same. They meandered away from the group and stopped at the edge of the tent. Above them a field of stars twinkled gracefully while the rising moon cast a halo over the line of clouds ascending from the west. Palish purple spots glowed and then faded away as lightning rippled within the walled bank.

"That's a bad gale," said Sandstorm. "There won't be much fighting on the front tonight, not while it's raging like that."

"I didn't know it was the rainy season in the Skywing kingdom. There must be more precipitation in the north then, if we're getting hit during the summer, sir."

"That's not quite how it works. Out here it storms almost constantly."

"Constantly?" asked Dust. He tore off a bite of the strange flesh in his claws, chewing. It was tough and rangy, but it had a good taste to it, and he ate away at the rest of it while Sandstorm talked.

"Yep. Whenever the weather damn well pleases, and it lets us know about it when it does. We have blizzards in the winter and torrential thunderstorms in the summer, and don't even get me started on spring; it's something all to itself."

"What happens in the spring?" said Dust, who was picking up on the sergeant's sense of humor.

Sandstorm gave the young private a _look_ , then went back to talking.

"Well, you asked for it. In the spring all the snow that accumulated over the winter turns into slush. That turns the ground into a bog to give the diamond spray delta a run for its money. All that mud undermines the foundations of every building between here and Scarlet's palace."

Sandstorm waved a yellow wing at the canteen.

"Do you have any idea how many times we've had to rebuild this?"

Dust shook his head.

"I remember one year when we redid the stakes nine times. We were covered in mud for the entire experience. There was mud everywhere. There was mud on the bedrolls, mud in our gambesons. Our mops got crusty with it. Eventually Arroyo just gave up and had us eat in the keep, and even that was unstable. Not to mention what happens to our weapons and ammo when the moisture gets in. Does that answer your question?"

"Yessir."

"Good."

"Well, actually I was wondering about another thing."

Sandstorm must've suppressed a groan. "Fine, but you only get one question, and that's it."

"Okay. If it rains so much, why is there still any scrub? I would've thought it would all be replaced by greenery."

"The water drains into the streams whenever there's a downpour. It's why there's so many gorges."

"How come it doesn't erode the hillsides then?"

"I told you that I only gave you one more question, and you just used it. Now it's my turn."

"What do you have to ask?" said Dust.

"Hold on a minute." said Sandstorm. He swallowed the last of the wild turkey he'd been eating whole, not even stopping to chew. Of all the dragon tribes, Sandwings found it the easiest to swallow their prey without having to bother about using their teeth.

"I'm fine now." said Sandstorm. "You said that you enlisted in the army. Which weapons did you train in?"

"Spear and poleaxe. Like I said, it was a mixed experience."

"Ah. It's a good old weapon, the spear. It was my first experience with arms. Do you have any practice with ranged weapons? Bows, crossbows, scorpios?"

"I can use a crossbow somewhat, but I'm not a very good shot. I only got to use one once, and I missed almost every time. I suppose I could use a scorpio in a pinch, but I haven't had any practice with it."

"We're going to need to fix that. Tomorrow morning you should go to the firing range and hone your skills; it shouldn't be too hard."

"Where is it?"

"Outside the fort. It's hard to miss and if you can't find it you could always ask someone for directions."

"I'd prefer not to." said Dust. "Are you going to be there?"

Sandstorm shrugged. "It depends. There's always stuff that needs to be done in a place this big. Maintenance, lookout duty, or goodness forbid, paperwork. I can't promise anything."

They shared a mutual chuckle, and there was a good-natured quiet for a while as the two lingered outside of the canteen, broken only by the sounds of the camp and the constant chorus of the crickets.

"Forget target practice, tomorrow I'm going cricket hunting." said Dust. "This is getting unbearable."

"How's that going to help you?" asked Sandstorm. "For all you know you might get eaten by a roving cricket pack, and then you wouldn't have accomplished anything except for feeding the insect's growth."

"Scratch that. You're the one who's impossible, sir."

"Very funny."

The shrill blast of a trumpet shattered the air, not unlike that of a bugle but slightly different. It blew for several seconds and died away before rising again. Dust knew instantly that it was the call for the first watch, and he also knew that any enlisted who were not on the first watch were to smother their fires and turn in.

"There goes the horn." said Sandstorm. "I'd better get a move on. See you later Dust, and don't get eaten by bugs."

Anything Dust might have said was blown away by the next trumpet blast as Sandstorm trotted away in the direction of the officer's cabin. There were too many tents to glide.

Dust himself helped blow out the lamps around the canteen and put out the campfires. Whatever else could be said about these frontier dragons, he had to admit that they were quick. One by one the lights dimmed and went out until only the glow of handheld lanterns remained, and soon those too were gone.

The last thing Dust would remember of that night would be the memory of throwing himself on an empty bedroll.

* * *

 **Hey again. I hope you stuck around to the end of this because I spent about five days on it and I would really appreciate it if you enjoyed the chapter.**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own Wings of Fire; if I did, there would be a lot more realism and a lot less saving the world, which I guess is what most of you came here for. But nevertheless, I do like writing, and you, reader, are fortunate in that regard.**

 **Big thanks to LiterallyHasNoIdeasForAOKName, who helped me with all aspects of this chapter and got me through my early writer's block. A lot of the finer details were inspired by him. If you don't know who he is already or if you just want to read a more conventional story I suggest that you check out his story Acta Non Verba and his Wings of Fire oneshots, all of which I highly recommend.**

 **If you have any thoughts or just want to point something out than the review box is down below; I don't mind constructive criticism and I'd like to hear a second – or third – opinion.**


	4. In which Dust has an interim

**AN:**

 **It's a long journey from first word to last sentence. I hope you like it, and as always, your thoughts are appreciated. I love getting feedback, criticisms and solutions, suggestions and all that. Above all, I spent hours on this chapter; if nothing else, tell me if you know the feeling.**

 **Many thanks to LiterallyHasNoIdeasForAnOKName, whose help got me started on this chapter, fed this chapter, gave it inspiration at times, and who went above and beyond what I asked of him. He is my friend, and a good one.**

 **He says (and I quote): _"Howdy, everyone. Just wanted to say that I'm still alive and still working on WoF stuff (though I have been off the archive for quite some time, long enough that some of you probably don't even remember or know who I am!)_**

 _ **I learned something important about myself since school started again. I'm a giant freakin' procrastinator and need to be in an isolated environment to get things done. Home is not an isolated environment, and I just get distracted, and that's part of the reason why I have barely even read anything, nevermind posted anything, in the last few months.**_

 _ **I'd like to say I'll be back, but at the same time, I'm sitting on a pile of unfinished projects- as writers tend to do- but in the meantime, the least I can do is start actually reading again and giving reviews. So that's what I'll start doing. Me putting this out there is going to help me push myself to do it. And maybe, just maybe, I can pull something together and tell a story again.**_

 _ **For now, hope you enjoy my friend's story- he's worked hard to get it out and it's awesome seeing it on the archive after all this time- and where-ever you are, stay safe!"**_

 **Written: April 25** **th** **–** **September 16** **th** **, 2019.  
**

 **Edited: September 16** **th** **-18 (Fanfiction dot net).**

 **Published: September 18th, 2019.**

* * *

The shrill sound of the morning bugle woke Dust from his slumber, body sore from sleeping on the hard, rocky ground. He'd had it worse in the jungle. Then the humidity had made his scales itch and slough away, exposing tender flesh to the biting insects. One last moment of precious rest – then came the buzzing of a mosquito; he slapped at it and missed.

Oh well. He'd been having a bad dream anyway.

Already dragons were scrambling out of their tents, given only a moment to find their bearings before they hustled off to roll call in the square courtyard, sweeping up Dust with them. He was confused for a moment by the rush, bumped and jostled by all of the larger dragons going around him and forming up in a line until someone pushed him into the front row, wherever that was.

There was barely enough room here for all of them, and it was a tight squeeze, but Dust found his place underneath the chin of a much larger soldier. From here he could see everything in front of him – everyone else was organized into large groups, company sergeants going up and down the line and calling out names.

A thin mist had settled on the ground and the thin grass was heavy with dew, waxing sunlight setting the eastern side of the fort aglow with brilliant red and orange light that reflected off the Sandwings scales and glinted on the blade of a tired sentry's drooping spear.

Dust could just see a group of Seawings, set apart from all of the other units. They had their own insignias and looked like they were living for this; weapons in talon and greaves polished until Dust could see the reflection of the keep behind him in cold steel, the very picture of nobility. One of them caught his gaze, sneered, and looked away.

A master sergeant, his face cold and drawn, walked up in front of Dust, booming voice calling away, then paused, seeing Dust's own face. One of the soldiers tapped him on the shoulder.

"Name?" The sergeant said it harshly, and Dust flinched.

"Private Sonderi, sir."

"Full name!"

"Private Dust Sonderi, si – sir,"

The sergeant frowned, looked Dust over, snorted, and said; "You're not one of mine. Get lost and go find your own unit."

Dust felt someone push him away and he stumbled out onto the wet green and into the ordered chaos, barely avoiding being trampled underfoot. He'd been told to go find his unit, but then, he didn't have a unit right now.

Behind him came the mutterings of the sergeant. "Damn rookie."

He was screwing up already. He didn't want to be a screw-up. Another, older and bigger Sandwing brushed past him as if he was nothing, head held high as he carried the black-and-gold standard of Blister's forces. It fluttered in the cool morning wind, proud as the tan dragon who carried it. Even from behind, Dust could tell that he was looking almost towards the rising sun. Tall, noble, coolheaded – everything Dust wasn't.

Dust had to find Sandstorm, had to find someone who would vouch for him before an officer came down and hammered him for not being in line or for stepping on his toes or for messing up a salute. He loped past a company of supply personnel, and, not looking where he was going, ran into another dragon, the impact nearly bowling him over.

"Aaah!"

"Watch it soldier! Where's your company?"

Dust looked up until his neck ached and even then he could barely look into the eyes of the angry-looking, yellow Sandwing because he was short and the other was tall. He stuttered – a flashback of an angry, dark yellow drill sergeant leaning over him while the harsh desert wind blew, perhaps to mock him -

"Soldier?" The Sandwing hunched so that he was at Dust's level.

Dust's tongue seemed almost to be made out of lead. "I… I don't know.. si-sir."

"You serious?"

"Yes sir, sir," said Dust, not sure what else to say.

The Sandwing's eyes twitched, as if he wanted to lay into this idiot private for not knowing such basic things but didn't have the time. "Follow me," he said, and then trotted off so quickly that Dust almost lost him in the chaos and the noise. He scrambled to catch up, passing officers and enlisted by the dozen.

Dust didn't ask where they were going. His talons were sopping wet from the dew by the time they reached the end of the field, where there was a small cluster of Sandwings going in and out.

"Chief Warrant Officer Mesa," called out the Sandwing Dust was following.

A pale tan dragon stepped forward. He looked to be about in his twenties – beyond that, Dust couldn't guess, and had a grizzled, though not quite weather-hardened face that currently held a frown at being interrupted. Unlike almost everyone else Dust had met here, he didn't seem to have any scars. His wings seemed darker than they really were, even in the growing dawn light.

Sandstorm had said that this was one of the dragons who ran the fort.

"Warrant Officer Crescent," said Mesa, and then noticed Dust tagging along. "Is there a problem?"

"This dumb private doesn't have a unit," said Crescent, and Mesa's frown deepened. "He isn't even carrying a spear."

"Are you the courier who came in yesterday?" asked Mesa.

Not knowing what else to do, Dust went with "Yes sir, sir."

"It's a simple mix-up. He's just army correspondence personnel, so put him in the support column and be done with it."

"Yes sir," said Crescent. He snorted at the shorter private; annoyed by the delay, Dust thought.

"Sir?"

"Yes?"

"I'm in the air force, actually. The Major's sending me to the forty-fourth soon," said Dust. He held his breath, hoping Mesa wouldn't be angry that he'd piped up.

Crescent looked even more annoyed.

"Fine. I'll put you in the eleventh, at least for now. They're short on personnel," said Mesa, and he looked away and back to whatever he had been doing before, and when he turned Dust could see a small scar on his pale neck.

"Wait. How do I get there?" asked Dust. "Sir?"

"Omani," said Mesa to one of the privates who had been helping him. "Take this dragon and get him a spear, then deliver him to B company, of the eleventh."

Why did Dust feel like Mesa was getting rid of him?

"Yes sir, sir," was the confident reply, and soon Dust found himself on the move, but this time he was not challenged as they headed to a weapons pile which was sheltered under the dirty, stone-and-earthen walls of the fort.

The spear felt unbalanced for Dust, who was small, but he'd learned to cope back at boot camp – cope or be dishonored, or die. He passed the standard-bearer again, the black-and-gold banner still fluttering in the breeze, its rippling shadow stretching away for many yards even in the light of the rising sun. Now the mist was fading away, but the grass was still wet and cold underneath his claws.

Brushing past the still shouting dragons, they reached a column of Sandwings about ten wide and five deep. Omani waited until the sergeant was out of breath and then tapped him on the wing.

"Sir, new recruit. A transfer."

The sergeant whirled on the two, or rather on Omani. Dust guessed that he hadn't been seen yet.

"Good news. Where is he?"

"Here," said Omani, gesturing to Dust, who was about half a head shorter than his fellow Sandwing. The sergeant frowned.

"That midget?"

Dust wasn't a midget, only small for his age, but the comment stung.

"Yes," said Omani.

"Name and rank?"

"Private Dust Sonderi, sir," said Dust. This sergeant seemed less in his face, more like Sandstorm, but Dust was still wary.

"I have a place for you at the end of the line, private. And you may know me as Lieutenant Dun, your new CO for your tour of duty – however long that may be."

"Actually," said Omani. "He's only going to be in your unit for a few days, at most. Then he's going to the front."

Dust thought he saw a flash of pity in Dun's eyes before it was gone and the lieutenant went back to being condescending. Maybe he'd imagined it.

"He's my soldier now. Get in formation."

It took some hassling, but Dust got himself arranged with the others in a straight rank, facing west towards the fractured Sandwing kingdom, his home, and he could just see the highest peaks of the blue, faraway mountains over the top of the stone-covered wall; tipped with white snow.

Then the bugle sounded, lower this time, clear notes echoing inside the fort as it blew the national anthem over long columns of tired dragons who still managed to stand proud for their tribe. The sun crested the ridge then, pouring plentiful yellow light into the courtyard as Dust held his head high.

* * *

The day after that passed, if not in a blur, then too quickly for Dust to comprehend it all. Morning calisthenics blended into a long patrol flight under Dun's watchful eye, with only one break for rest in the middle of it and then flight again, the air growing first humid, then hot as morning passed to noon.

Dinner, or lunch, as it was, came late for them; the company had to eat leftovers, and then, while they were digesting it, they had to help with chores on the ground.

Dust ended up helping a few dragons in logistics load mail into packing crates, presorted for the postage brigade who would take it back to the kingdom, or wherever it was destined.

Minnow was there as well, making sure that the boxes were weighted the way they were supposed to be, or they might shift during flight and cause problems for the freighter hauling them.

Dust asked, during a break in the work, if killer crickets were real.

"Of course not," Minnow said, grumpy because of the heat, Dust thought. "Everyone knows that."

Dust was wise enough not to say anything more about it, since it was plain to him then that Sandstorm had had him duped; he'd pulled the wool over his eyes and Dust hadn't been able to tell that it had happened to him, even though in hindsight it was so obvious that a dragonet would've known.

There was a lot he had to learn about this place.

Still, something rubbed him the wrong way about it.

It wasn't the work that bothered him; he had no aversion to working, had grown up doing work, would've called not wanting to do work being lazy. It was the sense of aimlessness within him; the sense that, beyond his orders, he didn't know what he was doing here, where he was going, what he would do if he wasn't eating, sleeping or working.

Maybe it was the mail. Minnow had told him not to read any of the mail, that it was rude to read other people's mail, that it was against regs to read official correspondence. He'd known that.

The letters, the letters that came from ordinary soldiers, letters to home, letters to friends; they didn't have envelopes, he could see them plain as day. It felt wrong to read their mail.

Even if it was illegible half the time.

Especially if it began with: 'Dear Mrs. so-and-so, we regret to inform you...' and he knew what that meant.

Always.

It meant that someone he would never know had died, and that his family, who Dust had never met, would grieve.

It was impersonal, even if the letters tried to be sympathetic. The lettering was always crisp and clear; it never wavered, as if the dragons writing it had done it so many times that it was just another chore.

The only way to not think about it was to drown his thoughts with work.

Then, in the afternoon, it was off for another patrol flight, the grime, caked on Dust's wings and never washed, fell away in bits as he took off. He saw it spiral down to the sage-covered ground, and then he was flying so far above the earth he couldn't see it any more, sore muscles aching in his side.

It was good to fly, to leave the world behind him, only he couldn't leave his thoughts.

More work. More chores. More flying. More patrols.

The landscape was dry; the wet of the morning dew had been long baked away by the blazing sun, the mud dried and turned into… well, dust.

Plain-grass and pigweed and brush and cockleburrs. It was no desert, but it was arid. No trees except those that grew by a watercourse, the brooks only a trickle of water flowing through a dried-up streambed.

Land; most of it grazed by cattle. Even from the air Dust could see their tails busy swatting away flies.

There were dragons, of course. They went to and fro from the camp, tan scales looking for all the world to him like patches of sand.

No Seawings. No marines.

Then, when the golden light of afternoon had given way to the orange of evening, the hot, muggy summer day cooled by a crisp breeze, the patrol put in at last for the safety and relief of the fort.

Dust came in for a hard landing, flared his wings just in time, didn't bother to touch down right but almost flopped onto the warm brush, still sure to keep the point of his spear well away from his body. He rolled to let the thistles scratch his back and sore muscles, then lay on the ground for a while, chest heaving.

He was first to the earth.

The others landed with heavy thumps, talons kicking up dirt, and Dust closed his eyes to keep out the sand. Dragons snorted and joints popped.

Someone nudged him where he lay.

"Come on. Up."

It was reflex by now.

"Sir, yes sir," he said, and in a second he was on his feet, wishing that he could have had a little bit more of rest.

The sergeant moved past him, then gave the company some time to brush themselves off.

"Weapons to the armory," he said. "Supper's in half an hour. Be punctual."

Funny, that he put emphasis on 'punctual'.

He didn't know where the armory was, but the other dragons did, and he half-walked, half-staggered after them, throwing his spear into a pile of their spears.

A grounder would fetch them later.

There would be more chores between now and supper, there always were. He almost groaned at the thought.

Still, he had to carry his own weight around here.

The warrant officer looked surprised when Dust asked if there was anything for him to do; perhaps he hadn't been expecting any volunteers, and perhaps that was why Dust was now wielding a broom, sweeping up the dirt in one of the camp tents. The task was futile, but at least it kept him busy.

Finally, finally the bugle blew, clear notes sounding the call to supper. Dust stowed his broom, then trotted down to the mess, though his sore legs kept it to more of an amble.

The food was bland, as usual; the meat tougher this time than it had been before – another of the camp ovens had broke, so the chatter went, and everything had had to be cooked in a pan.

Another odd thing – that everything had to be cooked. Then, when the food was as old as this food was, maybe it had to be put over the fire.

Dust found Sandstorm talking with another dragon at the open end of the mess. He waited until the other left, then came outside. It was a warm evening then, the crickets chirping in the brush and throwing up a racket, but Dust didn't mind them, now that he knew they weren't dangerous.

Just another source of noise.

He stood there for a minute before Sandstorm spoke.

"You're back," he said.

"Feeling like a brick," said Dust. He ignored Sandstorm for the moment and leaned himself up against one of the benches, his head resting on the table.

"Dun running a hard patrol?"

"Heh. Yeah." Dust yawned. "Can't.. can't wait for curfew and some sleep."

"That'd do you good," said Sandstorm.

"Pity the bedrolls are soft as a rock."

Dust saw Sandstorm's smile, almost wistful, and knew that the sergeant knew what it felt like.

"Feelin' cozy in this place?"

Dust curled his cheek. It was an invitation to talk. Still, he didn't think there was much point expressing his doubts.

"I'd rather sleep in a dune."

"You fell asleep, at least. How's the fort treating you so far?"

"Fine." Dust didn't feel like opening up to Sandstorm just yet. Sandstorm would know that he wasn't really fine, but the sergeant probably wouldn't push it. He went on. "Dun's a tough flier. We were faster than travel speed the whole time, on a escort mission, keeping safe the freighters. And Dun kept us higher than them, that I can understand, but we were going quick enough over their speed that we had to keep circling, and that tired out my wings."

Escorts and patrols were supposed to go slowly, so as not to miss anything on the ground.

"He's a hurrier," said Sandstorm. "but he doesn't cut corners."

Dust didn't know if Dun really did cut corners. He might. He seemed like the corner-cutting type, but if Sandstorm said he didn't cut corners then he probably didn't.

Sandstorm would know.

"The fort," began Dust, grasping for words. "It's different from what I expected. It's not like the post office I came here from, so clean and shiny and, and -" dared he say it, "wasteful. But it's not like my training camp either."

His hackles rose when he talked about that place.

"Grime. Everything is full of dirt and dust, but there's little sand. The fort itself – it's big, and the land feels big, but it's not desert big. In the kingdom we trained in tunnels underground, learned to dig into a drift and hide ourselves in less than a minute. The ground here is hard."

"Shale," said Sandstorm. "Try to dig in that and you cut yourself into pieces, without a shovel."

"And the dragons here.. not callous. Not fussy, like dragons on the coast. Good people, but the regs don't seem to apply here."

"You think they're loose?"

Sandstorm's question was quick and direct.

"No. Different. And there's a lot of them. Lots of people. Makes me feel small, in a way, like being in the city."

"Of course there's going to be people. It's a fort, and a big one at that. Don't you feel that it's something more? There's organization, purpose."

Dust privately thought that it made him feel like he was something less, but it was a selfish thought, so he kept it to himself.

"It's order, yeah. Purpose, I can't tell."

"Everything helps the war effort here. It's all to help the soldiers on the front; every weapon forged, every wound splinted, every ton of food sent to hungry mouths, every letter mailed home, every barracks built," said Sandstorm. "All of it. There's purpose."

Of course he'd mentioned the letters.

"Can't argue with that," Dust heard himself say. "It's just me."

A moment of relative silence, though the noises of camp carried on behind them; the banging of pots and the murmur of dragons speaking in common, punctuated by a sharp order to clear the stoves of flammables. A pause as they enjoyed the sheer feeling of doing next to nothing, looking out over the hills before them, clumps of brush growing where the old forest had been; before the Sandwings had cut down all of the trees for firewood, Dust reckoned.

On the crest of one of the rises, where the grass was short and the breeze was stronger, unimpeded by hilltops, a dragon landed, near brown, moving dots that were probably livestock. They shifted away from the stranger, then went back to browsing.

"Cattle?" asked Dust.

"Course. The fort takes care of several hundred head. That guy over there's counting 'em, making sure nobody stole one."

The temptation for that was great. Dust eyed them for a moment. "Huh," and later, "They look bigger than gazelles, at any rate."

"More meat in them, though that only means we have to defend them from the crickets."

"Minnow told me dragon-eating crickets don't exist. I asked him while we were sorting the mail."

"Ah, but he's a Seawing. He's not from around here, so he wouldn't know."

"With all due respect, sir, he told me not to believe a word that comes out of your mouth."

"Don't believe anything that comes out of his mouth," said Sandstorm. "As I was saying, the fort takes care of a couple hundred head – maybe a thousand, at this rate."

"I didn't see them, when I flew in," said Dust, glad to have pulled away the blindfold Sandstorm had fixed on him when it came to the crickets.

"They were probably drinking in the brook, under some of the tree cover over yonder," said Sandstorm. "It's hard to see through from the air."

"Not many cows, back in the desert. I heard they grazed some on the northern steppe, before the war. Sir."

Ah, before. A time when Dust had not yet existed, wasn't even a glimmer in his father's eye. _Before_. A time when there had been peace and not fighting, diplomacy by scroll instead of by spear.

"They still have cattle there. They must, to feed soldiers," observed Sandstorm. "Never been to the north?"

"Too dangerous… maybe Queen Blister's forces will capture it, someday, and I might get to visit."

"Pipe dream. Burn has her strongest presence there. We'll never take them, not unless there's a miracle. And Blister is a princess."

"Pessimistic, sir?"

"Realist."

"… There are Blaze's guerrillas. Freedom fighters."

"Scrappy militia, to me," said Sandstorm. It felt odd, to be cheering on an enemy, yet though Blaze was one of them, her forces were dragons that he might never meet, as long as he stayed on this front. "They don't amount to much."

"The Icewings are real soldiers, sir."

"True."

"Ever seen one?"

"No."

"Wish they were on our side, from what I hear," said Dust.

"Rumors; don't pay attention to them. Can't be sure of anything until I've encountered it myself."

"If you say so, sir."

"And that goes for you. Don't go off believing everything you hear, especially if it's about crickets."

Dust had just enough pride not to admit he'd fallen for that one, hard. He didn't need to, for it was obvious to anyone who had half a brain in their skulls. He hoped he wouldn't be laughed at, for being a newbie.

He was kidding himself; there would be those who made fun of him, whatever he did.

"Does it bother you, talking to me at all?"

"No."

"Oh. You're quiet sometimes," said Dust. "I'm afraid to talk about my troubles.. you've probably seen a lot more than I have. I don't want my problems to seem… petty, if that makes sense."

Sandstorm kicked at the dirt.

"I know. I've moved on from that, those things. To rookies every problem, every win, every loss seems like a big screaming deal. To us veterans it's just another action in a long war of actions."

"But -" Dust began.

"I'm not saying your problems aren't important," said Sandstorm. "They are. But it's hard to care when I see them all the time. To us your hazing is routine, even. We know we should do better, should care a bit more, but it's hard to. Not until you've become part of the group."

"I remember a joke I heard once in the desert," began Dust. "A dragon out hiking happens on a bunch of old-timers by a campfire, telling jokes. One stands up and says 'number eighty-four', and they all laugh. Another stands up and goes 'number eleven', and they all laugh. The hiker sits down and ingratiates himself and asks 'what's so funny about numbers?'

'Wal, we know so many good jokes and we've told them so many times that we've just decided to number them'.

So the guy waits until it's his turn, stands up, and goes 'thirty-three'. No one laughs. 'What happened?' he asks.

'It's funny, just not the way you tell it.'

Is that what you're talking about?"

"Older soldiers won't let the less experienced into their groups for a reason. They don't know them. Not many do. And many of the older ones have seen a lot of faces pass. They don't want to latch on to more, only to lose them."

"Then I'll have to make a group of my own?"

It should've been a statement, but it came out as a question.

"It's not the best way of doing things, no. You rookies have a lot to learn that the experienced talons can teach. Sad, that they don't often mix."

"And they see me as a rookie."

"It's what you are."

Dust looked out again, at the rolling, rough fields of grass, brown cattle grazing happily. The dragon who'd been counting them was out of sight, probably working behind the hill, where there would be more livestock who'd wandered beyond their living space in search of food. The fences were only a formality, for them; low stone walls stretching away until they disappeared into the troughs of the land, in good repair nearer the fort, but broken down, their rock weathered by the storms farther away.

"Arroyo said I'd be leaving, tomorrow, when I talked to him yesterday. This'll be one of our last talks."

"Tomorrow? That's quick."

"Maybe he was preoccupied," said Dust, hopefully. The alternative was that Arroyo didn't care a wit about what happened to one rookie. "There was the letter I delivered him."

"You been peeking at mail?"

"No sir. Only taking an educated guess, sir. It must've been something to make him worried."

"Most couriers get caught peeking, sooner or later. The punishment isn't pleasant."

"To the front?"

"No. To the rear, so they can't get captured and blab. Ever wondered who digs all those unnecessary latrines?"

"Oh. _Oh._ "

"Once the information is out of date, they get passed on to some other job. Couriers have too much experience to get passed into a meat grinder."

"I'm getting passed into a meat grinder?"

On second thought, Sandstorm shouldn't have brought that up.

"I was exaggerating," he said, though he hadn't been exaggerating at all. "Pay no heed."

"Thank you for telling me that you were pulling a fast one on me," said Dust. "Sir."

It stroked every officer's ego to be called 'sir', but Sandstorm looked closer to sighing than smiling, suddenly withdrawn, all of the sparkle disappearing from his eyes. Perhaps he was thinking of another conversation with another private in another time, maybe one who had said the same thing. Why he should be solemn, Dust did not know.

At last a grin played on his face, though the glimmer did not return to his eyes, and he spoke again. "Them couriers have to fly into battle zones anyway, delivering orders from headquarters at the back lines, if they can find the units they've been sent to, and that means screwups. A dragon will say 'command says go there', and units go, though the maps are upside down and the orders are convoluted, and them who don't make those control hops get sent on the Bay of Diamonds to the southern desert. Wears out a pair of wings real fast."

Dust knew that flight. He'd made it himself. "One of the harder jobs, sir."

"Sure, but there's no such thing as an easy job. 'Always in for more than we bargained for', that's a motto."

There was history in that saying, one which escaped Dust, and he felt that he was only standing in the shadow of the thunderstorm; he had never really met a courier, and so the tangible depth of it was outside of his grasp.

"I hear you're leaving tomorrow," said Sandstorm. "No time for cricket hunting?"

"Guess so," said Dust. "This place… just another rest stop in a string of rest stops, sir."

"Flight will work the soreness out of your bones. And get some practice on the range."

"I will."

"Practice, practice, practice. Your life depends on it."

A comfortable pause. Dust sat still and thought, rather than run his mouth. In that saying too, lay depth, and a hint of personal experience as well. Sandstorm's scar suddenly became obvious, was of more importance, because it represented the sergeant's combats.

"Did practice save you from that?" he asked, nodding towards the oval-shaped mark on the other dragon's torso.

"If I hadn't twisted, that spear might've gone into my heart. Could have, would have, might have. Didn't. Keep your wrestling skills sharp, and your flying skills sharper. No sense in lizard-fighting a Mudwing when you can flame him."

And there was an implication of the uglier side of that fighting. So much that he still had to know and learn about this, about everything. It'd be easier if Beryl was here.

"Should I spar?"

But Sandstorm wasn't listening. He was looking up at the darkening sky, to the south. Smallish dots in the distance flew towards the fort, orange light illuminating them from the right. And among those dragons was a signalier, from which waving flags streamed.

"No patrol's coming from that way for an hour at least," said Sandstorm, filling Dust in.

And he made to fly back to the fort, to see if there was any trouble that needed remedy. But the high lookouts had already seen it, were descending toward the embankments, backlit. One of their shadows passed over Dust, briefly, and he saw it race away until it joined the shadow of the walls and disappeared into them.

In came the patrol, waving their flags that Dust could not read, and behind them, far enough away to be whitened by haze, Dust saw fliers in the air, making speed in a wedge formation. Dust put his talon over his brow, peered closer and saw their wings beating alternately, knew they were tired. Still they held formation, and that told of good training, though he was no judge himself.

"Who do you think they are?"

"Supply, probably. They're early."

The bugle blew its sweet notes, and in its rhythm Dust did not hear the sound of the bugle itself so much as the signal it carried. 'Reinforcements'.

"Dust, looks like you won't have to ship out alone," said Sandstorm, and then added: "Wonder where they got the dragons from."

Reinforcements. From somewhere, perhaps a long way away, dragons had come to assist at Fort Pitt. Which post had they been diverted from, which place had they been recruited? They were on their way to give confidence, to fight.

"Wonder if they'll have any news," said Dust, but it was lost in the whoosh of Sandstorm's takeoff.

Dust took off after him, awkwardly, for his sore wings felt like they couldn't flap a single beat, but three put him high enough to glide. He barely made it over the lip of the embankment, almost tumbled into the fort, having no purpose to do so save to follow Sandstorm.

At the last moment he remembered that Dun ought to be in the barracks with his dragons, out there in the jumble of the sleeping field, and Dust had no idea where his sergeant was, what with the organized chaos suddenly going on.

There was the feel of planning to the mess; every dragon except him knew exactly what was expected of him, was carrying out his tasks.

Down came the patrol, and out stepped a dragon to greet them. A path cleared for him in the rush; grounders avoided him, off-duty soldiers made small salutes and got out of his way. Quiet suddenly came over the courtyard, and dragons slowed to a shuffle, hanging around to hear what was said.

"How many?" came the simple question, and Dust recognized the voice as that of Mesa's, Chief Warrant Officer. Behind him, stepping out from the keep, was Arroyo, looking professional as ever despite his ruined wing. So that was why he hadn't come at once.

"A brigade, sir."

"Time till arrival?"

"An hour."

Two scores of scores. Over four hundred dragons – Dust nearly jumped at that, then remembered, with the pessimism that'd been drilled into him, that it was probably understrength, that the scouts had in all likelihood miscounted the newcomers, that it was probably only two battalions, or just under three hundred dragons in all, and even that might be exaggerating.

Good news was good news, at any rate.

"Well, what are you standing around for?" came the voice of Arroyo, carrying even more than Mesa's had. "There's barracks to clear, identification to be made, food to be prepared for the newcomers."

He turned to the warrant officers, spoke to Mesa, and then Dust lost interest.

As in the morning, sergeants barked orders – a field needed to be cleared of stones, the ground smoothed for the new arrivals to sleep on. More water needed to be drawn from the wells, in case the incoming brigade drank through the available supply. Necessary-pits needed to be dug, and a patrol was put up over the livestock to deter privates, hungry from their long flight, from stealing the cattle vital to the fort's supplies.

"Soderni!" came a voice from his left, and Dust ignored it, until someone clapped him on the back. It was one of the soldiers he'd flown patrol with, taller than him but just as wiry, which gave the dragon a lanky, uncoordinated appearance that belied his true flying ability, which might have been a little better than Dust's. "Dun wants you helping the wing. Dunno about you, but I don't want to be doing extra laps tomorrow, if I can help it."

Dust took this as the incentive that it was, and when the other dragon took off, he less floated from the ground than surged, though his wings felt like metal weights dragging him down – if only because he didn't want the soldier to get stuck with doing extra PT. As for him, he'd be long gone before Dun could inflict much punishment, though that thought leaned toward the sly.

Dun was no Cholla.

"No way that's really a brigade, no way," said the soldier, as they came down by Dun's wing, still organizing itself. "Cause the last time we got reinforcements all the patrols were running around like their heads are cut off, squawkin' 'there's a regiment coming, there's a regiment coming!' at the the top of their lungs, and we wait for it and we wait for it and it's two companies and an engineer and the rest of the battalion was casualties of the Skywings and I go 'what regiment?'."

"Really?"

"And we're all working our tails off for the grand reception and the new arrivals fit into the barracks no problem. What a disappointment."

"Soldiers aren't chatterboxes. Get over here and help clean up this mess," said Dun, waving loosely at the external barracks standing, in a surprisingly organized way, on the field. "A space in the middle clear for a brigade and its support, with every rock picked out of it and level enough for a Seawing to stand on fresh out of water. And I mean every rock, not every other one of every other one. Move it."

"Sir, yes sir."

"Ain't no ground flat enough to keep a splasher' from falling on his snout," grumbled someone, and there was a laugh.

"Not in my company," said Dun. "Not under my wing." A warning glance, and the chuckles fell silent.

"Hist; here comes Crescent," said someone.

"Clear the ground offside," he said. "Not as much stuff to move." Dun frowned at that, for some reason, but the rest of his company perked up.

"We'll be having the MP guys stationed by the fort, but first reception is out here," continued Crescent. "Your job is to make this place look less like a dump and more like the shining establishment it is, with the exception that it's not shiny or an establishment."

"Pitt's the best damn establishment this side of the Bay. Scarlet's palace don't hold a candle to it," said one of Dust's wingmates in a not-quite-whisper.

"Less talking, more working," said Dun, but everyone smiled anyway.

There was plenty of work to be done. Offside the soil was more rocky than within the bounds of camp, if that was possible, the dirt scraped where dragons had landed before, probably to get to the range and to train; sandy grass eaten down to the roots, the brown culprits mooing from the other side of a stone fence. If it were any rockier, the ground would've been made of gravel. More to the point, some of the stones were sharp and flat, just the kind that worked themselves between scales until they were well-nigh impossible to remove, and only then did they cut at the unprotected flesh. Dust raised his tail and steered clear of them.

The rock was thrown into a pile, and the pile was scraped into old storage crates, and the storage crates were taken and dumped behind a hill, in the pastures in the back forty, though really the fort owned all of the land that wasn't held by the enemy.

Minus the land kept by the locals, but then, Dust hadn't seen any locals. Either they'd fled the war or were holed up, not talking to anybody. He might see one one day, dead, with no one to send a letter home for him. Sometimes, Dust thought, the suspense of not knowing what had happened was almost worse than knowing for sure that the dragon in question had died. Almost.

'Dear Mrs. Sonderi, we regret to inform you…'

'Lotta people hit the dirt when the rocks did…' came a thought, remembering that day when… and Dust stared at the rock in his talon, turned it face-up in his palm. It was a rounded stone, so harmless, but dropped from a great height, it could kill.

He wouldn't die. The very thought was unthinkable, so he didn't think it.

"Get a move on, Sonderi," said Dun, and Dust came back to the real world, took a deep breath to steady himself and make sure everything was all there.

At least the sergeant knew his name.

So they worked, until Mesa came back again and nodded, and Crescent nodded back, and said, "You're done," and a few dragons dared to say, "Not really," and Dust wondered if the chatter was just a way of livening up a conversation with no spring, no levity. Just another task finished, and in a few minutes there'd be another, and another, until… until what?

Curfew, maybe.

And in the meantime the dragons in the distance had flown closer, so that they were no longer specks wagging smaller specks to Dust's eyes, but took on some detail. Perhaps they were ten miles out – no, five, and at their speed, they could be here in twenty minutes, or fifteen, or ten.

A grounder brought weapons - "Why?" asked Dust, and someone said "Shush. Just in case they're enemy. There goes a patrol, to check 'em out. M-Ps."

In the air waved a set of flags, one green, one with a pattern on it that Dust did not know, and he did not ask what it was, so as not to seem foolish. He would learn soon, wouldn't he?

And the patrol came back, and just as quickly the grounders made their rounds and disappeared again, back through the grimy gates, though some, Dust noted, stowed the spears inside clay chests, those that lay next to the cabin, under the step, and looked awfully like coffins.

Dun kept his weapon, and so did all the other sergeants on up through the ranks, but Dust had only his twenty talons. Still, he did his best to stand high as he could and let his claws click, almost as it had been at roll call.

A fluttering in the wind, a rustle of fabric, and Dust looked away from the approaching dragons and toward the sound; here came the standard-bearer, and above him, borne by the new breeze, black-and-gold banner rippling, and its shadow stretching far away from the dragon who carried it, cast by the light of impending dusk. It took Dust back to the morning, only the sun was in the west and not in the east, and the grass was warm and dry instead of cool and wet, crinkling beneath his talons. But for all the change, the standard-bearer was no less noble and proud.

The tan dragon went down the hastily-formed line, and at last the reinforcements landed, a Sandwing at their head, exhausted, as Dust had been when he had come, and in need of rest; not a brigade in number, but closer to two battalions, if Dust was any guess, almost swallowed as he was in the crowd.

Not quite rowdy, not quite ordered, the newcomers milled about, waiting to be checked, though all the papers lay with the officers, who produced them, and every dragon had his own little seal. There wasn't much the M-Ps could do, save check the soldiers against their descriptions, and find anything that differed, for they had no way of knowing, really, whether the person who was described on the parchment was the person standing before them in the flesh, but could only make their best guess.

The officers were cleared, and the dragons from Fort Pitt came out, and ushered them in to Arroyo, doubtless to give news, and correspondence from far, far away – perhaps, Dust thought, even as distant as the place from which he had come, in the desert.

It would take time to check the rest of the arrivals, the soldiers, who were corralled off, waiting, so that no spy could sneak out and infiltrate the fort, without anyone noticing.

"Do them in batches, do them in batches," came a voice, Mesa's, and as he had seniority, the M-Ps did, and dragons were cleared, one flight at a time, and let into the mess to eat.

Dust clung to them, as many other privates did; some looking to see if anyone they knew had arrived, some to make small talk. Most of the old guard wanted to grab an extra bite, after supper, and all of them wanted to hear news.

The newcomers ate, ravenously, and almost exhausted the supply of food, till fresh cows were brought; still before the best of their prime, and that was why they had not been slaughtered yet. Still, there were hungry appetites to feed. They ate, and they ate, and they ate till their officers reprimanded them so that they wouldn't fill themselves to bursting, and when they were done eating, they wiped their mouths with their forearms and began to talk.


	5. Windpipes

**A/N: (I know it's AN for Author's Note, but this is something I used to do back in the bad old days).**

 **S'been a while, but I'm still working on this. Reviews always make my day because they remind me that someone out there is paying attention to what I'm writing, and that they've put the effort into responding to my work. I make my replies directly by PM.**

 **Written January 13** **th** **–** **March 27** **th** **,** **2020.**

 **Edited and improved on March 29** **th.**

 **Published Sunday April 5th, 2020.**

 _ **Whoa boy. I wonder if Dust knows what he's getting into.**_

* * *

They were all interesting; the men, the COs, the warrant officers and their juniors. Dust saw a Sandwing at the head of his bench, tall and lithe, tan and with great wings, eyes watching over those beside him intermittently, for at times he would take a great bite of his meal. On his shoulder was the patch marking him as a staff sergeant, and at his side was a somewhat younger Sandwing, speckled and making talk with the rest of his command, for his patch bore the insignia of corporal.

"Blister's heading down to Agate Mountain I hear," said the corporal, and he gave a wry smile at that.

"So she finally gave up on Coral?" said one; bright yellow scales adorning a longish, elliptical face.

"Doesn't mean a thing," said another, his mouth half-full with food.

"Missed her by a couple weeks, we did," said the corporal. "Hey princess, bringing any reinforcements with ya'?"

They all laughed.

Dust stepped forward.

"Blister's not a princess," he said.

Silence. The sergeant raised an eyebrow and the corporal suddenly found there was something very interesting about his food. Fourteen pairs of eyes focused on one very small Dust.

"Riight," said the one who'd been eating. "Tell a lie often enough and it becomes true."

And the sergeant said, "She's our queen," and fourteen pairs of eyes fell back to their mess trays.

Not The Queen, or A Queen, or even Queen of the Sandwing Kingdom. Our Queen, as if nobody else in the world would recognize that royalty. Dust fell back and kept to himself, sorrowed eyes doing the huffing his lungs wouldn't. Someone brushed him, and it was Aster.

"Won't get anything done for you, standing in the corner like that. You're shipping out, and may as well find your unit."

"You a mind medic too?" asked Dust.

Aster's focus narrowed, became internal. "Sometimes."

Dust got a slap on the back and then Aster was gone.

The officers he approached, asked a perfunctory question, received a no, left them alone and found another. It was when he'd inquired to half of them that he came across the staff sergeant he'd first spoken to.

"I'm joining up with the forty-fourth mixed," he said.

"So are we," said the speckled corporal, and he looked to his superior officer as if asking a question when he said: "We're one short."

The bigger dragon nodded.

"Hop in," said another. "Spot's recently vacant."

"You didn't have to tell him that, grumps," said the corporal, knowing Dust would make two and two.

He stood there, awkwardly inside the group yet outside of it, an annotation to this table of juggernauts in experience. When with them it was better to disconnect his self-worth from his accomplishments till he reached a tangible bar, so he stopped trying.

They all didn't know what to do with a rookie, save one, a wiry, short sort who nudged the corporal, who nudged the sergeant. Dust was the only outsider to witness the byplay.

"You'll need an introduction to the crew," said the sarge, picking his angle from which to attack the problem of Dust's post-like stance.

Somebody grunted, but the complaining went no further, and, like a great leader, the sergeant decided to delegate. "Saguaro, that'd be you," he said to the speckled corporal.

"Alright then," said he, Saguaro now. "Bramble's the commander of our outfit, if you can't tell, and I'm his second in command. They call me Jumping Bean or Chatterbox, depending on who you ask."

Dust went along with this.

"Rookie alert!" went Saguaro, and chuckled. "That's what I did with Sage, if you care to know, but still, moving on," -

Finally. If they would stop staring at him -

"This here is Flightmate Burr, best flier out of all of us and a wrestler besides. He's point. Give 'im a shake, will ya'?"

Dust held out his claw and a great, muscular dragon who reminded him of Arroyo's senior strength took it and shook, grinning all the while, then wrenched sideways hard enough to make it feel like he'd thrown out his elbow.

"OW!" yelled Dust, hopping about on three feet. "I was just trying to be friendly!"

The others laughed. "Looks like he got you good," said Saguaro. "A word from the wise. Don't try to overpower him, it never works."

"Hope he didn't break a bone," said Dust.

"Pshaw. He's very careful not to do that by accident,"

Dust glanced over at Burr and Burr winked. "I'll uh… keep that in mind."

"Moving on; here's Karst, our signalier specialist. We just like to call him Waves, on account of his shaking the flags all over the place. Sometimes I swear he's decked out more like a poster than anything else. Say hi to the new guy."

"Hi," said Karst, and offered a claw which Dust declined to shake.

"He's odd. Maybe because he prefers to speak more in code than with words," said Saguaro.

Karst was wearing a satchel on his chest made of dark leather which contrasted with his yellow scales. Spotted about him were discolored patches of even lighter tan, spots almost like Dust's freckles except Dust's freckles were brown.

"After Karst is Gripes, or grumps, whatever you want to call it," said Saguaro, touching his wing to another dragon with a square jaw, sunken eyes and chipped horn. "Smile."  
"Name's Kit. And I don't gripe," said Kit, looking bored.

"Now I say there's nothing wrong with griping unless you're trying to be unhappy all of the time."

"There's a lot to be unhappy about; how you chatterboxes can be so upbeat about everything I can't understand."

"Anything you like?" asked Dust, feeling awkward because of the turn in the conversation.

Kit showed Dust the handle of his spear, on which was engraved '21 cards'.

So he carried a spear to dinner.

Welcome to the front, Dust.

"Blackjack?"

"Yup."

Dust shrugged. "I don't gamble."

"Betting isn't allowed 'cause of regs," said Saguaro. "We play for fun. Sage is a fair dealer."

"Sage?"

"One of our resident poker players and the new guy before you showed up. He's the one with the bandage on his belly. His first war wound."

"Aw, c'mon. It's nothing to be proud of," said Sage, but he was grinning.

"He even has freckles like you do," went on Saguaro. "If not for your height you'd look as if you came out of the same egg."

They did look similar, right down to their tails, though Sage had a twinkle of mischief and a bit of confidence about him that Dust didn't.

Moving on, there were two other soldiers of note – and a regular sort named Grittle; Roadrunner and Jackal, both of them ordinary looking, both of them flightmates, but Roadrunner had an intense look in his eyes most soldiers lacked, a look – Dust couldn't quite describe it – similar to the one he had seen in officers like Arroyo and Sandstorm, though it did not grab his attention like the prior two's had.

Roadrunner's scales had grime on them, like everyone else's did, but it was a smaller amount, and not so much in the grooves of his scales, as if he took time to scrub when he washed. He wasn't old, but he wasn't young either, and that was odd, for Dust hadn't seen a dragon more than five years older than him who wasn't an officer at this fort.

"Happy to meet you," said Dust, after sizing up the other.

"He thinks he'll be CO someday, with his very own wing," remarked Saguaro. Nobody chuckled. So it was serious, then.

"Is he a corporal?" asked Dust.

"Not yet," said Roadrunner, and with 'Not yet' came the implication he would be, someday.

"Hey, Sonderi," said Bramble. "You're dee sixteen."

"Dee?" asked Sonderi.

"Old designation back at Agate when we flew with the 118th," said Bramble. "Roadrunner's group."

Then it was curfew, and they retired to their tents stacked double or triple with the new arrivals, drowsing and kicking and itching and flicking their tails like the cattle grazing placidly before the butcher, and the crickets chirped like mad till Dust folded his wings over his ears and still he heard them. They mounted a chorus, bye, bye bye, and the swallow in the eaves of the fort's banks throated a rolling dirge.

"I heard," said somebody in the ambient night, "I heard of a farm."

"Goph, can it," said Kit, but Dust listened with one ear while his eyes fought their way closed.

"You've got to have a farm," said Goph. Gopher?

"I heard if you give Blister a silver from a thousand years ago she'll give you a thousand acres," said Jackal.

Nobody laughed.

"Maybe she won't give everybody a farm," said Saguaro. "We ought to pool our money and save for it."

"You got to own something for yourself," said Gopher.

"Go to sleep and we'll be one day closer," said Bramble, "and that's an order navigator."

They settled down and Dust remembered going to sleep to the sound of 'someday I'll own a farm'.

Then he dreamed of being in a different place – a nice sort of valley where he lived close to his neighbor – was it Beryl? - and went home every week till a storm came and uprooted everything, and he was watching his life go up in vapor and holding his crushed baby brother when the horn blew and it was roll call.

Sixteen Sandwings reflexively stood up like lightning in reverse and scrambled out of their tents and eyries in a jumble of wings and tails and spit, and he looked down and swept clear a space with his tail to keep his little brother from getting trampled and, noticing the little dragonet wasn't there, blinked and wondered where the sibling had gone, till somehow they'd all lined up in a row and were counted. The sleepy film rose from his eyes – he was at the fort watching the banner go by, fluttering with loud cracks in the breeze, he was here and not at home, at home when life was good and war was a low rumble passing by.

Then they were breaking fast and getting rations from Crescent and gearing up with Savanna for the flight to wherever they were going, and there weren't enough dragons to handle all of it, so Dust slipped out during the confusion and found Sandstorm's place, for there was one thing he wanted to do.

The little room in the barracks was nothing like Arroyo's office; as grimy as Arroyo's had been clean, as full of little bits of metal and half-whittled pieces of wood lying about as Arroyo's desk had been neatly stacked with parchment, smelling more of old scales than new candles.

In the center of it all was Sandstorm, working intently on a wooden hilt for a knife, yellow eyes squinting as he made fine cuts in the material.

Dust stepped in, slowly, so as not to disturb the elder dragon, his feet making little rustlings and cracklings on the floor. He looked down and saw sawdust between the talons of his claws.

The sergeant hadn't bothered to clean up in a while.

"Sandstorm," began Dust. He didn't reply. "Sandstorm?"

The sergeant shook his head as if to clear it of cobwebs.

"What?"

"Moons, you're curt. I'm leaving today, sir."

"Come to say goodbye?"

"Thought I would, in case I," and the words caught for a moment. He cleared his throat. "in case I didn't see you again."

"You ready to go?"

"Not like I have anything to pack."

"Nothing?"

"Zilch, 'cept my papers."

Sandstorm thought a moment, reached for something on the shelf. "I can help with that."

He opened his talon and Dust peered closer.

"Your knife?" he asked.

"One of five," said Sandstorm. "I'm making a new one, so I can spare it."

"Spent a lot of time on that, sir," said Dust, who could appreciate the design, the curving hilt that would fit a dragon's talons better than that of the standard issue, the sharp, oiled blade and the grooves where it had been worn raw by Sandstorm's tough scales; perhaps even when he had been whittling, like he had been now, ere Dust had come in.

"It special to you?" he asked.

"Not really," said Sandstorm, twirling it in his talons. "It's not the one Aster used to cut that spear out of my guts."

"I see," said Dust. "Sir."

"That one still has the dried blood on it," continued the sergeant. "I keep it as a lucky charm."

"Good, good to know," said Dust, and Sandstorm clapped him on the side with his free talon; Dust winced.

"Can't be a good soldier if you're queasy. Get over it, now. This knife's yours. Maybe it'll save your life one day."

"If I ever get into a mess like that, I'll have a lot more to worry about," said Dust. "All I can say is thanks."

"Oh, and make sure to scrub out the initials and carve in your own, or someone will think you've stolen it."

"I will, but I have to go now, sir."

"One last scrap of advice," said Sandstorm. He took a breath, exhaled through his nostrils. "There was a saying I heard once. The strength of the wolf is the pack, and the strength of the pack is the wolf. If you're ever feeling down, remember you make a difference just by being around to make a difference. Stay alive out there, alright?"

"For what it's worth, I promise, Sarge."

"Sergeant Major, to you," said Sandstorm, and he grinned at Dust for what might well be the last time.

"Goodbye, Sergeant Major. Take care."

"You too."

Then he loped out and glided back to his group as if he'd never left, though Bramble noticed and touched his shoulder.

"Don't go off without orders, Sonderi," he said, and turned his back afterward and wouldn't give Dust more than a cursory glance. Perhaps that hurt more than the expressed disapproval, that and Roadrunner's raised eyebrow.

Dust turned the knife over and over in his talons and only set it down for a moment when he put on his flight jacket before he picked it back up again.

"What's the pouch for?" he asked.

"Crossbow bolts," said Saguaro, poking his wing through the thick, unwieldy cloth garment from which hung multiple buckles. "You clip it on, like this."

And the speckled corporal demonstrated what he meant.

"Doesn't seem like it's a good idea to use this when it's, you know, flammable," said Dust. That was what he'd forgotten – crossbow practice!

"It's not any worse than getting hit by a blast of fire in the face," said Kit. "Deal."

"At least you're not me," said Karst, decked out with at least six large flags of varying colors clipped to a running line with the ubiquitous buckles. "A spark touches me and I'm a flaming wreck."

Dust stuffed his knife in the bolt pouch, then, given a crossbow and ammunition by Jackal's yellow claw, nestled the ammunition in too, the fletchings tickling his neck whenever he bent it down to look behind him.

"I've got a kite shield," said Burr, fastening a brown, raindrop shaped piece of metal to his belly. It curved up and fit to his lower chest, attached with clips which smelled of brass instead of leather and wood; the black and gold of Blister flaking from the center stripe. It must've weighed something like three hundred pounds, yet Burr supported it without much trouble.

"What do you use it for?" asked Dust.

In hindsight, that was perfectly obvious, yet the intelligent things he'd meant to say had been jumbled on the way up their windpipe till they'd come out all wrong.

"Chick magnet," said Burr, and left it there.

Roadrunner gave the best and least comforting piece of advice.

"Don't get hit."

Dust picked at the dirt and waited till it was takeoff time and the Sergeant was doing that thing where he was bellowing a little too much in Dust's direction for comfort, yet his body still ran with the river while his mind flew oppositely away. When he looked back on life leading up to this point he did not know what he possibly could have done to meaningfully change it.

Then spoke his pluck. _You've got a lot of time left in your life yet, and no use wasting it on self-pity. Make something of yourself._

For a land said to be so busy with action he had not expected the skies to be so full, yet there were flying specks here and there and moving with what? Purpose, like Sandstorm had said? Perhaps they did not bother themselves with philosophy and metaphorical questions as he bothered.

They spared their sanity.

And in four hours they had landed at a dusty old place, or seemingly dusty old place, and its name was McCracken – commanded by Major Tumbleweed. It was a fortress of safety in a wild, untamed landscape, and within the hour they learned there had been a raid by the enemy upon it and the keys had very nearly been turned over to new management.

This had best not be a sign of things to come, but it likely was, and who was he kidding, to think things could get better instead of worse – already pessimistic, he was, but things really would get better with the reinforcements around.

It was hot that day, and not the pleasant kind of hot; damp welling up from the fort's wells and the creek below and making it muggy so as the air was thick as thieves with the humidity. Worse, most of the place was underground; tunnels dug deep until they met an underground catacomb hollowed by the retreat of the water table; excavated in this age when the work was done by dint of muscle and elbow grit, and that was the way it always had been and always would be till the end of time, for there was no way to get something for nothing.

Inside the place were the provisions for a mess area, crammed into the armory, next to the stores; a month's worth of victuals reserved in here and that, Kit said in his doom-and-gloomy voice, was a protection against siege, when everyone inside would be hard-up for food. Close at hand was a water supply, a well, probably for Seawings, though there was a conspicuous lack of the stuck-up splashers here. A collection of forges for mending metal lined the top of the catacombs on a kind of shelf in one of the larger caverns, and, oddly enough, a sort of tailor's for mending leather and straps and twining together frayed cords.

For the flight jackets, mayhap. And the floors were damp and the ceilings were crumbly if they were pushed on too much or scraped with a horn, but Dust's small size served him well even though in his heart of hearts he wished to be a tiny bit bigger, only if he had been he felt he would've come to grief.

The newcomers were briefed and debriefed and the ' were given intel and the grunts were told what to expect and all through it Dust was fiddling with his knife, or Sandstorm's knife, or perhaps both of theirs. Well, Sandstorm had said it was his. How lethal was it? Goodness forbid he ever test it on himself, yet his treacherous mind pressed the blade to his scale much as it encouraged him to leap off a cliff with his wings closed just to see what would happen.

In a short break he found a nook and scratched out 'Sonderi wuz here' in an old board overgrown with stringy dirt, and before he flicked his knife closed he wiped off the grime. Perhaps another one of his clan would find it and be comforted by it, for life was easier knowing someone of like mind had come before, as opposed to the empty, lonely feeling of charting uncharted and enemy territory.

"Where does this come from?" Dust would ask, running a talon down a smooth stone arch on the wall which surface was cool and slick and unpleasant instead of grained and dry like regular stone would be, save near the box lantern inset to the walls like a ruby knit to dragonscale, glowing red from the foxfire sprites cultivated inside.

"The rock, you mean? Bramble would know," said Jackal. "Or maybe Gopher or Roadrunner. They come from before the war."

A dragon crept in from another passage, and it was Gopher. "Hey, you know how long I've been chasing after you guys?"

"What-for?" said Jackal.

A cook in the hall whistled through his teeth as if they were windpipes as he went past.

"Sergeant says to report to our new burrow bunks inside an updraft," said Gopher, playing his part as a go-fer.

"Yes, sir," said Dust.

"I ain't sir."

"I'm saying sir to Bramble I s'pose."

Oh, he should've been lame and had an excuse to vanish into the infirmary, permanently.

"You should've let him keep calling you sir," said Jackal. "Hey, wouldn't that have been a hoot. I wonder if we could pull one off on the base medic -"

"He seems pretty sharp," said Gopher. He kicked dirt. "Missed it!"

"Why's the stone smooth?" asked Dust, before they went.

Gopher craned his head and and his ear grazed the arch before he noticed it.

"Must've been made by a draining of the water table. I'm glad there's stone or the whole thing would come crashing down on top of us. Chop chop, time's a'wasting."

Then all was quiet in the little hall where the arch cast warm, diamond-shaped refractions from the light of the inset foxfire lamp, till the cook came wandering by and whistled through his teeth as if they were windpipes.

* * *

"Dust?" asked Sage, once, after they had arrived at Picket. "Dust, can you write?"

"A little bit," said Dust. "But not very well. Why do you ask?"

"I'd like you to teach me."

And Dust realized the crux of the matter. Though there was a post, Sage didn't know how to compose a letter, couldn't use the gift of mail. If he had family back home, they must be worried sick.

And that reminded Dust of his own family, and Beryl.

Beyond that, Sage was ashamed he could not… could not what?

"Sure. I will."

He must be ashamed he could not write, and wouldn't dictate to another because it was personal to him.

Dust remembered Outback hiding the letter on his desk, knew dragons could be so touchy – were touchy, as a rule.

"How come you don't ask someone else?" he said, testing. "Surely the officers can read and write, and the specialists. They can teach you."

"Well, they're officers," said Sage, and Dust wondered why so many soldiers trusted their sergeants with their lives but not with their letters. Personal preference, perhaps?

"And besides," continued Sage. "Roadrunner's too focused. Jackal would chat everyone's ears off about it, and I don't know if Kit can read, for he's so grumpy I've never bothered to ask. He might. Burr can't read, for sure."

Ah. So he was concerned about someone blabbing about his lack of skill. Sage confirmed it with his next sentence.

"And not Waves or Gopher, because they've known everybody important and everybody important has known them for ages and pretty soon the whole company will know what I'm up to, if I ask them."

There was also the fact, Sage thought with some chagrin, that he was a nobody, and so nobody else would bother to ask him. Or maybe they would, but it would be a haze, and thus not taken seriously.

Only Sandstorm seemed to have taken interest in him, and Dust didn't know Sandstorm, couldn't discern why he had done so, unless, thinking back to their conversations about old-timers and tenderfeet, it was done out of a sense of pity or even guilt.

"Is there any time you'd like to start?" he asked, and Sage smiled.

He spent a week in that place, the flight muggling around with combat always about to erupt. About to. He trained and shot, shot and trained, flew, glided, cantered, galloped, walloped, stretched, and speared. The boredom was enough to make a pacifist want war, caused Dust to want to prove to himself he had the guts to do it, to fight the enemy and come out whole ready for another battle, to lay around the campfire on night watch when the air got cold towards the dawn and listen to the stories of how soldiers like him – yes, him! - how they'd go in and they'd do it, and they'd die and get killed and get maimed and be horrified, but – there was always a but – there was a certain status that came with being in combat.

There were three kinds of soldiers; untested, tested, and elite. Dust occupied the bottommost rung, and there was only one way to the top; experience.

If only the brass would quit calling everyone up for patrols that went into enemy territory, then scratching the missions.

So it was when the wing stood arrayed in little clusters on the arid field that'd been cleared of stones for takeoff and landing, and the cicadas buzzed incessantly like rattlesnakes and the rattlesnakes buzzed warningly like cicadas when a dragon got too close to one, when all this was and they stood in the clumpy scrub and Sergeant Bramble had to go up and down his line telling everybody to stop flickering flame and stamping their feet otherwise there'd be a wildfire – then the base commander came out and said it was a go.

"Gosh darnit," said Sage, crouching for the jump-beat. "My letter all ready and you to look over it and I forgot!"

Sage opened his jaws to say something when Bramble shouted: "Circle once for linkup, wedge with me at the head! Dees thirteen through sixteen, go!"

That was his number. Dust sprang and beat his wings with a rush and a sharp rustling and a sting from nipping someone at his side who'd been too close, and the five-hundred pounds of gear weighed at him, made him front-heavy so he tipped suddenly forward when he was only thirty feet from the ground. He flapped again; exactly the wrong thing to do; tilted as he was the thrust sent him careening forwards as the world's inexorable pull grabbed him and made him sink till he'd dirt-dart and careen down the slope.

Reflexes pushed his tail to its full length and that saved him, for it pitched him back and he rose over a rocky knoll with a scale's breadth between him and a hard crunch, all to the tune of laughter from the group.

"Hey greenhorn, did you think of side-strapping instead of putting the weight in the front?" called down Karst, winging a comfortable bank overhead with one wing beneath the horizon and the other tilted to the sky, his crossbow clipped to one flank and his ammunition and spear to the other.

"You sunk like a Mudwing toad instead of a Sandwing airborn," said another. The rest smiled and gave low chuckles, save for Griddle, who shook his head, Sage, who winked, and Saguaro, who offered the only encouragement.

"Good job pulling up there," he said, pulling in a speckled wing for a slight roll. "Another yard and you'd have busted your head."

That shut them up like clams, and Dust used the comparative quiet to swap his crossbow with his small, light water canteen. It wasn't an altogether perfect solution, for the weight sagged right and pulled him in a different direction faster than he imagined a Mudwing abandoned a conversation in the presence of food, but it was better than keeping his tail unfurled all the time with little possibility of further positive pitch.

Dust completed the first circle around camp, muscles settling into the slow rhythm of rising flight, pausing now and then outstretched and supporting his weight as if he were a roll of yarn hung on two spindles. The lazy ascending therms welled up from McCracken's bare slopes like an invisible, warm geyser which let him soar with one wing spread wider than the other, sideslipping in the breeze.

"Ascending-descending, ascending-descending," shouted Bramble, and Dust followed his flightmates into the dense tangle of soldiers all finding their places in mid-flight.

It resembled a gaggle of ducklings trying to follow their mother while caught in a whirlpool.

"On me, on me!" cried Bramble, and fifteen fliers got in a medley line trailing after him as he got clear from the busy bubble of the fort's airspace.

"Follow me," said Sage, and: "Keep clear of the big guys."

The flecked Sandwing cut left, lost the warm therms of McCracken and flapped so he climbed above the rest of the soldiers. Dust, encumbered on the right, was slow to follow, ended up behind and below Sage before his massive wings truly found their medium and rowed him to Sage's altitude and a tad in front.

Roadrunner and Jackal angled for the emptiness ahead of them, cupping the air to slow when Waves got clear of the din and let ripple the muted green in bursts of three, four times, accompanying the signals with periodic blasts of a small brass trumpet.

"Escort?" asked Dust, dropping behind the group because he thought they should be going slower than they were.

"Travel!" shouted back Sage, and again the fliers' wings got him into his spot before Roadrunner looked back and noticed he was gone.

"S'alright," said Sage, when Dust had caught up. "I did that too my first go. See anything in the bay?"

Dust glanced right, his chin nudging at his chest while his tail bent to account for the sudden slanting of his head.

"Looks hazy," he said.

"Guess you haven't the eyes," said Sage. "There's a storm in the bay of diamonds. The Seawings are getting rained on. Ha!"

"They mustn't mind the wet," said Dust, and: "I'm glad for the dry. Think your storm will drift here?"

"Naw," said Sage. "I don't see a cloud in the sky."

And indeed the weather cooperated. Purple haze glued the edges of the blue dome overhead to the earth, a great, diminishing expanse already a thousand feet below three minutes into the climbout. Ahead of him the dragons of the wing weaved like bobbing beads strung on an invisible flying necklace, descending to the point of the wedge, where Bramble had ceded the point position to Burr, and falling again on the other side, the bottom rear lookout separated by a good one-hundred and fifty feet of height and another span in width.

It was a standard Sandwing combat patrol, and though Dust knew little of its faults he yet saw that the two lines could be easily split where they met, severing the eight upper dragons from the lower seven and throwing the point into a swarming melee, if he survived at all. Still, the presence of numbers reassured him.

Burr, Bramble, Saguaro, Gopher, Karst, some guy named Buster, Griddle, Kit, Roadrunner, Jackal, Sage, and himself, besides four more, a regular gang, and the little voice nagging him and telling him he'd screw up and die changed its tune in the presence of these hardened, uncompromising soldiers.

"Do we stay in this when we go into combat?" he asked, more shouting than speaking over the constant snap-rustle of heavy wingbeats.

"Oh, this?" said Sage. "Sarge'll put us in fours or a crescent. Maybe we'll find some Mudwings an' bash their heads in."

"Is it bad?"

"Bad?" asked Sage. "It's great, as long as you don't lose anybody that is."

So that was comforting.

"Get your crossbow in your talons by the time Waves quits flying the big red flag or you're caught squattin'," said Jackal. "Roadrunner says to cut the chatter."

They flew on for what seemed like hours, and Dust's side of the wedge stayed in the air thirty minutes more while Corporal Saguaro and the specialists ate their midday rations on the ground.

"Spot!" shouted Sage halfway through the meal. "North-west and north, high, thirty-odd, pass it down!"

A moment's pause from Jackal, as if he expected Dust to relay the information – he did, and as Dust was opening his mouth Jackal got sick of waiting and told Roadrunner himself, all the way down the line to Bramble. Burr detached himself from the formation and swooped down to tell the low-alts, though already they'd stuffed their half-eaten rations back in their pouches and were straining their wings to get back up.

Dust couldn't see what Sage was talking about, but unclipped his crossbow and would've set about winding it when Roadrunner stopped him.

"No dryfires," he said.

They didn't know yet, though now Dust could see a little cluster of dots subdivided into clumps of three, eight or nine of them moving to the left from their perspective but approaching fast.

Bramble found a stable air current on which to soar, held out his spyglass and pressed it to one eye even as Burr got back to altitude, riding the last of his speed from the dive. The rest of the wing was still five hundred feet below. What a time to be caught napping!

Karst waved his flags for full speed. Again blew the trumpet, and the wing slid off the therm and made a good twenty-five knots on their own power.

Finally Bramble put down his glass. "Friendlies," he said, and there was a collective groan.

Fifteen minutes more and Dust's side were allowed to glide to the dirt and eat, and they rose again and drew yet more north.

"There's a Skywing stockade on our left, see it?" asked Sage.

"Nothing but the trees and a bluff precipice," said Dust, yet a round, striated upheaval on a hilltop suggested the presence of an unfriendly structure.

"I bet they'll send up a couple a pals," said Sage, "soon as they spot us anyway."

The Seawing group had already crossed Dust's latitude to the east, skirting the bay of diamonds as they drew near the location of Fort McCracken, little dots in a sky where dots grew quickly into determined, deadly hunters.

Karst waved the blue, pointed northwest. More Seawings, this time loitering just inside the invisible map border that defined enemy territory. Dust thought he saw them ascending and descending as if on meals. Bramble passed them by cruising at thirty-five hundred feet, and the slow, patient blood in Dust rose to a turgid summit.

"Tumbleweed said this was where they tangled with Skywings yesterday, right 'ere," said Jackal. He added no more.

The Seawings beneath them remained perfectly oblivious to their presence.

"Mark left by five," came the word down the line, and fifteen changed their course; then Dust when he saw he was drifting out of formation.

The wind, once a steady upwelling, now shifted to a westerly breeze flowing to the warm convections coming off the glittering sea, convections curling and going eastward at a leisurely, humid pace. Tiny cloud wisps brewed up from air thinner than a lizardskin purse just beneath their altitude, tufts roiling and parting and melding back into one fluffy whole again like cheerful burrs of sand scud or suds at a rich place where the clan head invites the foreigners to wash with water.

"Spot!" shouted Sage, and Dust passed it down the line, and ere the word came back from Bramble and his spyglass Karst was waving the red.


End file.
